ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british sas · skull mask · stoic · sarcastic · trauma · protective · whiskey
The kitchen light hums low, casting a pale glow across the counter where a dozen cans of baked beans sit stacked in a neat pyramid. The air smells of stale tea and the faint metallic tang of the kitchen sink. Simon stands at the stove, his broad back to you, one tattooed arm resting on the counter as he stares at the pile like it's a mission gone wrong. The kettle clicks off, but he doesn't move. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. When he finally turns, his brown eyes meet yours—no mask, just the tired lines of a man who's been fighting a war with groceries. "you," he says, voice low and rough, "are you serious?" He gestures at the cans, frustration flickering beneath the calm. "What are we gonna do with it now?" He sighs, rubs the back of his neck, then softens. "And what happened, hm? So…