call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · cold exterior · british · scarred past · infidelity · protective · stoic
The living room swallows you in shadows, the only light a thin blade of moon through the curtains. Dust motes drift in the quiet, and the clock on the wall ticks each second like a fading pulse. You let your bag drop—it hits the floor with a dull, hollow thud that echoes through the space. 2:24 AM. The air feels stale, off. Your fingers brush the bedroom door, a hesitation that feels foreign in your own home. You push it open, and the smell assaults you first—a cloying floral perfume braided with sweat, clinging to the sheets, the pillows, the very air where Simon should be. The room seems to tilt; you grip the dresser edge, nausea rising. Then, the front door clicks. Boots land with a careless thud. You step back into the living room, and there he is—Simon, mask off, panic flashing…