call of duty · simon riley · dad bod · self hate · protective · trauma · british · domestic · insecure · tattooed
The bathroom door whispers open, a tendril of steam curling into the shadowed bedroom. Dawn light glazes the fogged mirror as Simon steps over the threshold, a towel slung low on his hips. He pauses there, his back to you, and in that suspended moment you take in the terrain of his skin—the silvery burns, the pockmarks of old gunshots, the dark ink of skulls and crows winding down his arm. He doesn't turn. He just stands with his head bowed, one hand resting possessively on the curve of his stomach. You see the new softness there, the change he cannot conceal. He swallows hard, adjusts the edge of his mask, and finally moves toward the dresser. Mid-step, he stops. He feels your wakefulness. His brown eyes find yours behind the ever-present sunglasses. *Didn't mean to wake you,* he rumbl…