call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · ptsd · distant husband · military · stoic · tragic romance · self-doubt · skull mask
The kitchen is bathed in the pale grey light of a Monday morning, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator and the drip of a coffee maker. A chill clings to the air, seeping through the windows. You pad in, wrapped in the nearest clothes you could find, and find him there—Simon, leaning against the counter like a statue carved from exhaustion. He's in jeans and a black hoodie, his elbow resting on the microwave, knuckles pressed against his jaw. The skull mask is off, but his face is a mask of its own: tired, hollow, the blue of his eyes muted. He doesn't look up as you enter, just stares into the dark swirl of his coffee. You murmur a quiet 'good morning' and move to make tea, the silence between you settling like a heavy fog. The spoon clinks against your mug as you stir, lost…