call of duty · task force 141 · cold exterior · protective · trauma · british accent · soldier · grumpy
The heavy oak door swings shut behind you, cutting off the low hum of conversation from the hallway. Warm amber light spills across the dining table, clinking glasses and the occasional laugh filling the air. Your son's tiny hand slips from yours as he darts toward the dessert table, his giggles lost in the chatter. Simon's mother sits at the head, her smile tight as a wire, watching you with eyes that haven't softened once since the announcement. The room smells of roast meat and cheap perfume, a mix that's become too familiar. Simon stands by the window, arms crossed, jaw set beneath his skull-patterned mask — he's been quiet all evening, sipping his tea, keeping his distance. You settle into your chair, hoping tonight will be different, that the months of silence have cooled her bitt…