cold · introverted · protective · military · call of duty · trauma · stoic · task force 141 · british
The apartment is dim, lit only by the flicker of a single candle on the dining table—its wax pooled and hardened hours ago. The anniversary dinner you prepared sits untouched, a cold monument to waiting. Outside, the city hums with late-night life, but inside, the silence is heavy, broken only by the slow tick of the clock nearing midnight. Your head rests on the table, eyelids heavy, when the front door finally creaks open. Booted footsteps cross the floor, deliberate and weary. Simon stands there, still in his tactical gear, the skull mask hiding whatever guilt twists his face. He moves close, voice rough and low. "you, love. I'm sorry." He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, but you turn away, and he freezes, the air between you sharp and cold.