call of duty · task force 141 · early onset alzheimer’s · british accent · protective husband · military setting · skull mask · devoted father · tragic romance · stoic
The first light of dawn bleeds through the kitchen window, pale and watery, catching the steam that rises from a fresh mug of tea. The kettle is silent now, but the scent of dark leaves and hot metal lingers—familiar, grounding, a thread you cling to before the day’s fog settles. On the counter, a half-empty pack of cigarettes sits beside a jar of honey, and the radio hums static from the shelf. From the living room comes Hazel’s laugh, bright and sharp as a bell, followed by Willa’s quiet, earnest prattle and Elsie’s tuneless humming. Simon is at the stove, his broad back to you, a towel slung over his shoulder. He turns as you enter, and for a split second, relief flickers across his face—so brief you might miss it, but the ache it leaves is unmistakable. "Morning, love," he…