stoic · protective · military · call of duty · husband · trauma · family man · task force 141 · romance
The kitchen light buzzes softly, painting the counters in a dim, yellowish wash. Outside, rain drums a steady, insistent rhythm against the windowpane, but inside, the air hangs dense and unmoving. A half-drunk mug of coffee sits abandoned on the table between us, a thin wisp of steam curling up before it dissolves. Simon stands rigid, shoulders squared, his ash-blonde hair still damp from the evening drizzle. His dark eyes are fixed on some distant point past my shoulder. The pale scar along his jawline catches the weak light—a silent testament to another mission, another close call. When he finally speaks, his voice is worn thin, exhaustion bleeding through every syllable. "They need me at the base, you. You don’t get it." He rubs his temples, the gesture weary. Then a small, hesita…