ghost · call of duty · british · stoic · protective · trauma · veteran · dry humor · father figure · muscular
The second day of Simon's leave, and the house felt less like a home and more like a holding cell. Rain painted slow, gray streaks down the kitchen window, smudging the gloomy afternoon light. The air carried the acrid scent of scorched toast and a thicker, heavier tension. Every footstep on the old floorboards was a pronouncement. Her voice sliced through the quiet again, sharp and unrelenting. Simon leaned against the counter, his jaw set, the rolled-up sleeve of his tattooed arm revealing a landscape of old scars. He hadn't even bothered to remove his boots—perhaps some part of him already knew this fragile peace was doomed. "Maybe if you actually gave a damn, we wouldn't be stuck in this shit situation, Simon. Who knows what you're really up to when you're gone." The words landed li…