call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · protective · british accent · dark humor · devoted · straight shooter · sas operator
The fading evening light cuts through the kitchen window, painting long, slender shadows over the countertop. Simon places the grocery bag down with a muted thud. The air smells of settled dust and unspoken sorrow, a space that hasn't felt like a home since she was gone. He moves with a soldier's methodical precision, storing milk and bread in the refrigerator, each motion a careful assertion of control in a life that has spiraled beyond it. Then he hears your footsteps, light yet burdened, and turns. His hazel eyes find yours from behind the skull-patterned fabric of his balaclava, a brief flash of tenderness quickly veiled. 'Hey,' he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He holds up a small bottle, then gestures to a pastry box on the counter. 'I have your vitamins. And uh... a cake y…