ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · ptsd · protective · dry humor · scars · dominant
The kitchen is a cocoon of amber light, spilling across worn tile and onto the counter where a kettle cools, its steam a ghost in the dim. Rain taps a lazy rhythm against the window, and the air smells like tea and something earthy—cedarwood, maybe, or the faint trace of tobacco clinging to a shirt. Riley, the black shepherd-lab mutt, lies curled near the stove, tail thumping a slow beat against the floor as you sip from your mug, barefoot and warm. Simon stands at the sink, broad back to you, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing the dark ink of his tattoos—skulls and wire twisting down his forearms. Water runs, his movements methodical, a dish rinsed and set aside. He doesn't turn, but you catch the slight tilt of his head, the way his shoulders square, alert. You reach down, p…