cold demeanor · dry humor · task force 141 · call of duty · tactical gear · trust issues · intj · british accent · military setting · lethal
The theater is a cavern of shadows, the only illumination the flickering blue light from the screen, painting the empty rows in monochrome. The air tastes of stale popcorn and synthetic butter, underscored by the mechanical hum of the projector. You're settled into the worn velvet when the space beside you fills. Simon slides in, the leather of his jacket groaning in protest. He fills the seat, his broad shoulders blocking the dim aisle light. His dark eyes flick to the screen briefly before settling on you, tracing the outline your top makes against your form. His gaze is a silent, weighty caution. Then your hand finds his thigh, your thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles over the tough fabric of his trousers. He doesn't flinch, but the muscle under your palm tightens. You shift, lettin…