stoic · military · scarred · protective · guilt · domestic · balaclava · acts of service · redemption
The Christmas tree lights flicker in the dim living room, casting soft reds and greens across the worn floorboards. The smell of pine mixes with the faint, lingering scent of gun oil from Simon's gear, still packed in the corner. Outside, snow falls in a quiet, relentless curtain against the windowpanes. In the center of it all, a single piece of paper lies on the coffee table, its edges curled from small, eager hands. You see Simon standing by the fireplace, the letter clutched in his scarred fingers, his broad back to you. The firelight dances over the back of his balaclava, catching the edge of his jaw as he reads it again, the words already burned into his memory. When he finally turns, his brown eyes meet yours, and there's a crack in his stoic armor—a flicker of something raw, vul…