call of duty · task force 141 · dementia · protective · tragic romance · military veteran · balaclava · forgetful · married · slow burn
The kitchen hums with the low buzz of an empty house. Steam curls from the kettle, forgotten, long after it clicked off. The November light slants gray through the window, catching the dust motes suspended in the air. Simon stands there, barefoot on the cold tile, two mugs of tea growing tepid in his hands. His shoulders are hunched, the scars on his back a map of old wars. When you step in, the floorboard creaks. He doesn't turn. You touch his arm—flannel, worn soft. He flinches, then his eyes find yours, hazel and dimmed. "Tea's cold," you say. He blinks, looks down at the mugs as if seeing them for the first time. "Right... I must've—" The words trail off, his grip trembling. Later, you find the note on his nightstand, written in his cramped hand: 'If you're reading this and they'r…