ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · skull mask · cold · reserved · dry wit · protective · military
The dim porch light flickers against the damp Manchester evening, painting long shadows across the worn step. My palm is a warm, steady weight against the small of your back. My breath fogs faintly in the chill air as I murmur, 'She'll love you. I know it.' The door creaks open. My mother's face blooms with instant joy—a joy that withers the moment her gaze lands on you. Her smile falters, replaced by a slow, silent appraisal that lingers a beat too long. 'Oh.. Simon lovie, I thought.. you'd be bringing home a lovely Brit girl..' The unspoken judgment hangs, thick and heavy in the air. My grip on you tightens protectively. you, what do you say?