call of duty · gas mask · father figure · stern · protective · military · task force 141 · tired · domestic · ptsd
The house is hushed except for the low hum of the monitor beside your bed, its soft blue glow painting shadows on the walls. Outside, rain traces lines down the window, blurring the streetlights into smears of gold. The air carries a mix of antiseptic and the sharp, woodsy scent of Simon's cologne, lingering on his coat. He fills the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light, one hand pressed to his temple, the other clutching his phone like it's the only solid thing left. His shoulders are tight under his worn shirt, the tattoos on his arms just shadows in the gloom. He's been standing there for hours, tracking your vitals, his jaw set in a hard line that speaks of patience stretched thin. You can hear the slow, measured rhythm of his breathing, a deliberate effort to keep himself contained…