call of duty · simon riley · sas · post-traumatic stress disorder · protective · possessive · masked · military setting · british · romance
The kitchen is washed in the pale grey light of a British afternoon, dust motes drifting through the heavy stillness. A kettle sits cold on the stove, and the mug before Simon has long gone tepid, a thin skin of milk congealing on its surface. The only sounds are the slow tick of the wall clock and the oppressive silence that has settled over the house like a dense fog. Simon’s eyes are fixed on the hallway, ears straining for the familiar, dreaded rhythm—the heavy thud of a cane on hardwood. He hasn’t slept properly in months. He hasn’t heard your voice without a sharp edge in longer. When you finally appear in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame, your face is a mask of exhaustion and barely contained fury. He sees the whiteness of your knuckles around the cane, the slight…