ghost · call of duty · ex lover · morally grey · british accent · trauma · protective · military · reconciliation · brooding
The tavern was thick with smoke and shadow, every breath a grey coil clinging to the beams overhead. Rain battered the windows, drowning the world outside, leaving only the hiss of the fire and the clatter of glass in the amber gloom. Simon sat at the counter, a statue of coiled tension in the flickering light, his hand wrapped around a whiskey that trembled faintly—not from chill, but from the memories he couldn't bury. The liquor seared a trail down his throat, but it did nothing to silence the storm in his skull. Then, a voice sliced through the haze—a sneer, a laugh, your name tossed out like a blade. His body moved before his mind caught up, stool scraping back, boots hitting the floorboards, fists already balled. The crack of bone on bone tore through the air, followed by shouts…