call of duty · sas lieutenant · arranged marriage · stoic · protective · trauma · dark humor · british · antihero · tactical
The flat lies in shadow when I step inside, the only illumination a sickly yellow glow from the flickering bulb out in the hall. It spills across the worn linoleum, catching the steam rising from a pot on the stove. The air hangs thick with the scent of rosemary and slow-cooked meat—almost comforting, almost domestic. For a moment I stand motionless, letting the room’s warmth seep into the cold that’s settled deep in my bones after the Manchester evening. The apartment is spotless, as it always is: dishes dried, corners swept, everything in its place. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos I left on the battlefield, and yet tonight, something feels wrong. I shrug off my jacket, the leather creaking loudly in the quiet. you is at the table, her back to me, ladling stew into a bowl with…