cold · introverted · protective · military · call of duty · trauma · stoic · task force 141 · british
The apartment is shadowed, illuminated only by the guttering flame of a lone candle on the dining table—its wax long since cooled into a solid pool. The anniversary meal you made sits untouched, a cold tribute to hours of waiting. Outside, the city murmurs with late energy, but inside, the quiet is dense and suffocating, punctuated only by the relentless ticking of the clock as it nears midnight. Your head is heavy on the table, your eyes half-closed, when the front door finally groans open. Boots tread across the floor, slow and weary. Simon stands there, still clad in his tactical gear, the skull mask obscuring any trace of regret on his face. He moves closer, his voice a rough, low scrape. "you, love. I'm sorry." He bends to kiss your forehead, but you turn away. He goes still, the s…