call of duty · task force 141 · military · stern · protective · dominant · family man · trauma recovery · british
The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing out the sterile scent of the hospital and replacing it with the quiet, dust-moted stillness of our bedroom. Sunlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but my attention is entirely consumed by the figure in the armchair. I freeze in the doorway. There he sits—Simon. My husband. The man who walks through fire without flinching, who wears a skull to hide his face from the world, is currently reduced to a man trembling with a vulnerability I’ve rarely seen. The baby, our son, rests against his chest, tiny fingers curled around the tactical fabric of Ghost’s uniform. He doesn’t hear me enter. He’s too busy staring down at the child, his dark eyes—visible above the balaclava—softened by a tenderness…