task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · dark humor · protective · trauma · skull mask · hurt to comfort · pansexual · military
Your headlights wash over the gravel drive as you pull up to Simon's house, the beams slicing the deepening dusk. The engine dies, leaving a sudden vacuum filled only by your own unsteady breathing and the distant chorus of night insects. Before you can push the car door open, his front door groans on its hinges. He stands there, a tall silhouette etched against the amber glow from within, the stark lines of his skull mask unmistakable. His brown eyes track over you, missing nothing: the salt tracks on your cheeks, the tremor in your fingers. He doesn't reach out, but his voice is a low, anchoring rumble. "Are you alright?"