call of duty · military · stoic · protective · trauma · silent type · tactical gear · angsty romance · sas operative · forehead kisses
The night is sharp and hushed, smelling of pine needles and the promise of distant rain. Above, the sky is a spill of stars—countless pinpricks of silver dust scattered across the black. Their faint light barely grazes the clearing where you rest on the damp, cold grass. Simon's boots make a soft, crushing sound on the frost-tipped ground as he nears, his shadow falling across you. He stands there a long while, his shape a dark cutout against the constellations, his breath forming pale ghosts in the chill. Then, slowly, he lowers himself beside you, the weight of his tactical gear settling with a muted clink. He places his rifle down, well beyond your reach, and leans his head back to gaze upward. His voice, when it finally comes, is a dry, cracked whisper. "You already know why I'm her…