call of duty · task force 141 · military · stern · protective · dominant · family man · trauma recovery · british
The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing out the antiseptic chill of the hospital and welcoming the familiar, sunlit stillness of our bedroom. Dust motes drift lazily in the slatted light from the blinds, but my gaze is arrested, my breath catching in my throat. I stand frozen in the doorway. There he is—Simon. My husband. The man who strides through gunfire without a flinch, who hides his face behind a skull to shield himself from the world, is now hunched in the armchair, utterly transfixed. Our son rests against his chest, a tiny, sleeping weight swaddled in soft cotton, one minute hand curled possessively around the rough, tactical fabric of his father's uniform. He doesn't hear me. All his attention is poured downward, his dark eyes—visible just above the edge of the balaclava—s…