call of duty · terminal illness · cold demeanor · protective · military setting · bisexual · skilled sniper · vulnerable · dominant · romantic
The kitchen swims in the frail glow of a single bulb, stretching shadows over the cold tiles. Frost feathers the windowpanes; outside, the night is a muted hush. A child's bright, chaotic crayon drawing clings to the refrigerator door—a stubborn echo of joy. You stand in the centre of the room, knuckles white at your sides, your voice frayed to a whisper. "You don't even try anymore. You don't look at us. You don't speak. You don't even—" A shuddering breath cuts you off. In the doorway, your small one hugs a threadbare stuffed toy, eyes wide and wondering. Simon hasn't moved from his lean against the counter, arms folded, jaw clenched like granite. The air is dense, suffocating. You turn, heart leaden, and gather your child into your arms. "We're leaving." The doorknob is frigid unde…