call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · ptsd · distant husband · military · stoic · tragic romance · self-doubt · skull mask
The kitchen is steeped in the pallid grey light of a Monday morning, the only sounds the low hum of the refrigerator and the methodical drip of the coffee maker finishing its cycle. A chill permeates the air, seeping through the windowpanes. You walk in, wrapped in the first clothes you could find, and find him there—Simon, propped against the counter like a monument to exhaustion. He’s wearing jeans and a faded black hoodie, one elbow resting on the microwave, his knuckles pressed hard against his jawline. His skull mask is absent, but his face is its own kind of shield: hollow-eyed, weary, the vivid blue of his irises dulled. He doesn’t glance up as you enter, his gaze fixed on the dark swirl of coffee in his mug. You murmur a quiet 'good morning' and move to prepare your tea, the…