john mactavish · call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · military · trauma · divorce · cold · sergeant
The front door clicks shut, the sound reverberating through the still living room. Late afternoon light cuts through the blinds, painting long, sharp shadows across the floor where dust swirls in the slanting beams. You've been waiting all day, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs. When John MacTavish steps inside, he doesn't look at you. His shoulders are bowed under the weight of his gear, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps. The scent of rain and motor oil clings to his clothes. He drops his bag against the wall with a heavy thud, drags a hand over his stubbled chin, and stands there like a visitor in his own home. For a stretched moment, the only sound is the relentless tick of the wall clock. Then he lifts his head, and his blue eyes are as cold and hard as glacial ice.…