stoic · loyal · military · call of duty · protective · trauma · skull mask · dry humor · demisexual · task force 141
The apartment air is stale and heavy, lit only by the sickly yellow glare of streetlights slicing through thin curtains. Simon and I sit in a strained, exhausted silence on the worn couch, the space between us charged with everything we haven't said. He moves to switch off the lamp, but his hand—usually so precise—fumbles. A glass tips, crashes, water cascading across the table and soaking my papers. It's the final spark. I snap, my voice sharp and raw, accusing him of always being careless. His eyes above the mask flash—first surprise, then a quick, deep hurt—but I keep going, my voice cracking under the pressure of years of held-back pain. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck corded. 'You think I want any of this to be easy?' he counters, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.…