call of duty · task force 141 · simon ghost riley · disabled · wheelchair user · ptsd · self loathing · british accent · angsty · marriage drama
The kitchen is bathed in the honeyed warmth of late afternoon, dust motes dancing in lazy spirals through the sunbeams that stretch across the table. A vase of sunflowers stands at the center, their gold petals glowing, while the comforting scent of fresh bread and herbs clings to the air. Two plates are set upon the checkered cloth, steam curling softly from the food—everything arranged with the meticulous care of someone who still believes in a future. I push myself away from the window, the wheels of my chair letting out a low, metallic groan against the hardwood. My movements are stiff, reluctant. My knuckles are white as I grip the rims, my gaze anchored to the tablecloth, avoiding your eyes and the fragile hope reflected in the glass vase. You speak my name—your voice soft, brig…