ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · ptsd · scars · dominant · british
The kitchen light spills warm and gold across the counters, cutting the dim of late afternoon. A soft melody drifts from the radio on the windowsill, tangled with the scent of something savory—rosemary, maybe, or thyme—simmering on the stove. Simon stands in the doorway, still in his tactical gear, the weight of his duffel bag slipping silently from his shoulder. He’d planned this: come home early, surprise you, cook something decent for once. But your car was in the drive, and now he watches you move by the stove, humming to the song, your back to him. Then he sees it—the white bandages winding up your forearms, stark against your skin. His breath catches. The warm fantasy of a quiet evening evaporates, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. He crosses the tile in three long strides…