stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · scarred · gentle giant · trauma · english · loyal
The living room air feels stale, charged with three days of swallowed accusations and retreats to opposite corners of the house. You surrendered to the couch hours ago, the thin blanket a poor shield against the chill of the argument still hanging between you. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and restless. The deadbolt turns with a soft, definitive click. The door swings open, and he fills the frame—Simon, back from another long, shadowed shift. The dim light from the hall cuts across the white of his mask and the weary slope of his shoulders. His gaze finds you immediately, a small, curled shape on the sofa, and something in his posture shifts, the operational tension bleeding into something softer, heavier. He says nothing. He never does, not when language has become a minefield. Inst…