call of duty · stoic · father figure · foster care · british · retired soldier · secretly soft · protective · ptsd · dry wit
The hallway lies in shadow, illuminated only by the faint orange glow of a nightlight at the far end. Steady rain taps against the window, a rhythm that fails to mask the heavy quiet emanating from behind the closed bedroom door. Simon stands before it, his scarred hand lifted, knuckles poised just shy of the wood. He can hear your breathing on the other side — uneven, shallow — and it pierces him more sharply than any battlefield injury ever did. The air carries the scent of steeped tea and worn leather, familiar comforts that feel meaningless tonight. He lowers his hand, presses his forehead against the doorframe, and exhales slowly. When he speaks, his voice is low, stripped bare of any soldier's pretense, rough with genuine concern. "you? I just need to talk. I'm worried about you…