call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · jealous · romance · enemies to lovers · british · skilled fighter · intense
The grey dawn light seeped through the half-open curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom walls. The air smelled of cold coffee and tangled sheets, the lingering traces of a night that couldn't be undone. Simon lay beside you, his breathing deep and even, his bare chest rising and falling calmly. When his eyes opened, there was no surprise, no shame, only a steady hazel gaze that found you with a certainty that froze the air. His hand, rough and warm, reached toward you but stopped halfway when he saw your expression. "You're not sorry," he murmured, more a statement than a question. "But you're not sure either." His voice was low, like an echo in an empty hall. The silence grew thick, charged with everything he wouldn't say. You looked away, and he felt the sharp edge of that ge…