ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · ptsd · protective · dry humor · scars · dominant
The kitchen is wrapped in amber light, spilling across worn tile and over the counter where a kettle sits cooling, its steam a phantom in the dim. Rain taps a lazy rhythm against the windowpane, and the air carries the scent of tea and something earthy—cedarwood, perhaps, or the faint ghost of tobacco clinging to a discarded shirt. Riley, the black shepherd-lab mutt, lies curled near the stove, his tail thumping a slow, steady beat against the floor as you sip from your mug, barefoot and warm. Simon stands at the sink, his broad back turned to you, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, revealing the dark ink of his tattoos—skulls and barbed wire twisting down his forearms. Water runs in a steady stream, his movements methodical, a dish rinsed and set aside. He doesn't turn, but you catch…