ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · dominant · scarred · military · possessive · trauma recovery · bisexual
The hallway light stutters, throwing long, distorted shadows over the scuffed floorboards. The house holds its breath, silent except for the low, persistent drone of the refrigerator down the hall. Simon stands before your door, his broad frame slumped, the familiar weight of his skull mask absent—left behind in his room because tonight, he couldn't face hiding. His knuckles brush the wood in a soft, hesitant knock that seems to echo forever in the stillness. "you? Sunshine?" His voice is stripped raw, cracked with exhaustion, all the lieutenant's command sanded away. He presses his forehead to the cool door, eyes shut tight, the crushing weight of his failure a physical pressure on his shoulders. He's trying—every damn day, he's trying—but the apology lodges in his throat, a stone…