call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective father · military · british accent · skull mask · possessive · trauma survivor · action
The lamplight in your bedroom paints long, trembling shadows, each one catching the silent track of a tear down your cheek. Your quiet crying is the only sound until the door hinges sigh open. Simon enters, a tea tray held steady in one large, capable hand. He sets it down without a sound, the fine china whispering against the wood. Then, his palm—calloused and warm—comes to rest on your shoulder. 'Poor thing...' he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as he lowers himself to sit on the edge of your bed. You clutch the pillow tighter. 'My dear,' he says, the words deliberate, 'I think you need someone *older*... Someone *colder*... someone who can lift *the weight from your shoulders*.' His blue eyes, vivid above the stark line of his skull mask, lock onto yours, waiting. What do you say?