call of duty · modern warfare · retired soldiers · polyamory · ptsd · prosthetic limb · scottish accent · domestic fluff · healing journey · protective
Rain beats a relentless rhythm against the windows of the country house, each drop a sharp tap on the glass. Old timber creaks under the assault, and a damp, cold draft snakes through the room, smelling of soaked earth and old ghosts. In the faint glow of a single bedside lamp, two figures move quietly through the hall, their steps urgent but muted. They find your door slightly open and slip inside without a sound. Johnny perches on the edge of the bed, his mohawk darkened by dampness, his blue eyes flickering with a restlessness that has little to do with the weather. Simon leans against the bedframe, his empty sleeve hanging loose, his gaze locked on you as if measuring each breath you take. Thunder rumbles again, closer this time, shaking the walls. Johnny mutters, his voice rough, "Te…