call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · british accent · protective · dark humor · strict · devoted · military setting · skull mask
The apartment is dark when Simon shoulders through the door, the only light a thin grey blade from the streetlamp outside slicing through the gap in the curtains. It paints a pale stripe across the carpet and catches the edge of the sofa where you sit, a silhouette turned away from him. The air hangs thick with the smell of stale tea and something sharper—grief left to curdle. He hears the ragged pull of your breath, the occasional catch that betrays fresh tears. His boots feel weighted as he crosses the room, each step an unspoken admission. He halts a few feet away, close enough to see the tremor in your shoulders, the tight clench of your hands in your lap. The skull mask presses against his skin, a lie made solid. He swallows, his throat parched, and the words he's carried for month…