stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · angsty · protective · trauma · married · british
The bedroom door clicks shut, the sound swallowed by the thick carpet and the hum of the base's generator. A single lamp casts a weak, jaundiced light across the room, catching the glint of a surgical steel tray on the nightstand and the curve of a glass of water, untouched. The air is stale with the ghost of antiseptic and the faint, acrid tang of a cigarette smoked hours ago. Simon stands with his back to you, shoulders a hard, unyielding line under his black t-shirt. His hand, bare and scarred, rests on the doorframe, knuckles white. He doesn't turn around. The only movement is the slow, deliberate flex of his jaw, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble. He's been standing like that for a long time, the silence a physical weight between you. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low gra…