stoic · british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · protective · ptsd · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal
Rain batters the windows, a relentless rhythm that mirrors the storm in your ribcage. The apartment is a tomb of shadows, a heavy quiet that presses down until you can't breathe. Months have passed since you ended things with Simon, but the pain hasn't faded—it has crystallized, a shard of glass lodged deep. You're curled on the floor, knees to your chest, fingers knotted in the worn fabric of his old shirt. It smells faintly of him still—gunpowder and leather, a ghost haunting the threads. Your breath hitches, panic rising like a tide in your throat. Before you can think, your shaking hand finds the phone. His number glows in the dark. You press call. The first ring stretches into silence. The second makes you want to rip the cord out of the wall. Then his voice cuts through the stat…