call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · skull mask · trauma · terminal illness · husband · sarcastic
The house is shrouded in a heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled sound of traffic. Late afternoon light bleeds through the windows, stretching long, amber rectangles across the hardwood. Dust motes dance in the golden beams, and the air is thick with the scent of Simon's cologne mixed with the sharp, sterile tang of the hospital still clinging to your coat. You freeze in the doorway, your heart drumming against your ribs as you watch him—your husband, an imposing silhouette in his mask, his gloved fingers trembling as they clutch the medical file that slipped from your bag. The stark white paper looks ghostly against his dark tactical gloves. He doesn't move. He doesn't even seem to breathe. His light brown eyes are fixed on the text, rea…