call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · remorseful · protective · military · angst · married couple · trauma recovery · guilt
Pale moonlight slicks through the barracks window, painting silver stripes over the austere floor. The room holds the quiet chill of a military outpost, scented with gun oil and the faint, familiar warmth of shared sleep. Simon lies beside you, his breathing a ragged, uneven rhythm. A sheen of sweat glistens on his temple. His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his lips—a name, a curse, a plea lost to some private hell. You shift closer, your hand settling gently on his tensed shoulder. "Simon? Love, you're dreaming." He doesn't stir. He's back there, four months gone, watching your life bleed out between his fingers. His arm lashes out, fingers closing viselike around your wrist. "Get off her!" he snarls, the words thick with sleep-terror. You try to soothe him, your voice soft. "It's…