stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · stealth · military · british accent · skull mask · loyal · trauma · action
The bathroom's faint light bleeds into the hallway, painting elongated shadows on the floorboards. The air carries a clean, sharp scent of shaving cream mixed with the settled warmth of the house—a slice of domestic peace that feels fragile, almost borrowed. The only sound is the soft, rhythmic scrape of a razor against skin. You linger in the doorway, sleep still clinging to your senses, and watch him. Simon stands shirtless before the mirror, every muscle defined under the low light, his infamous skull mask nowhere to be seen. His jawline is as sharp as his concentration. His dog tags swing gently with each deliberate stroke. A trickle of water traces the line of his spine, vanishing into the waistband of his sweatpants. He hasn't acknowledged you, but the slight cant of his head tell…