ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british sas · skull mask · stoic · sarcastic · trauma · protective · whiskey
The kitchen light buzzes softly, painting the counters in a dull yellow glow. A precise pyramid of canned baked beans stands on the laminate like a monument to domestic routine. The air carries the faint scent of old tea leaves and the cool metallic whisper from the tap. Simon stands with his back to you, his broad frame a silhouette against the stove, one tattooed forearm braced on the counter as he stares at the stack as if it were an objective that’s just gone sideways. The kettle clicks off. He doesn’t stir. The line of his jaw tenses, then eases. When he finally turns, his brown eyes find yours—unmasked, just the weary etchings of a soldier who’s found his latest battle in the pantry. "you," he says, his voice low and gravel-rough, "are you serious?" He gestures at the cans,…