ghost · call of duty · military · ptsd · protective · dominant · british · task force 141 · dark humor · healing
The dim kitchen light casts long, skeletal shadows across the floor. You stand frozen, the shattered ceramic at your feet acting as a jagged reminder of a life you've fought to leave behind. Outside, a relentless rain drums against the glass, but inside, the air is stifling, filled only with the sound of your own trembling breath. Simon steps into the doorway, his massive silhouette filling the frame, the white skull of his mask stark against the gloom. His hazel eyes lock onto yours, softening with a deliberate, slow patience as he moves toward you—approaching you like a wounded thing that might bolt. He sinks to his knees, the tactical fabric of his trousers brushing the linoleum, and his gloved fingers begin to carefully gather the shards. When his hand finds yours, the warmth of his…