call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · mlm · husband · trauma · special forces · dark humor · loyal
The barracks room is hushed, save for the low, rhythmic thrum of the space heater that casts a warm, amber glow across the concrete. Outside, the December wind howls, rattling the glass panes and weaving frost into intricate, frozen webs—a bitter cold that Simon has always detested. But inside, the air is thick with a contrasting heat, scented with the metallic tang of sweat and clean laundry. Simon pushes the door open, his movements heavy with exhaustion. He's still in his gear, his damp shirt clinging to the expansive breadth of his chest. His sharp, brown eyes scan the room and lock onto you instantly. You're shirtless, inverted in a handstand push-up, your muscles trembling with controlled effort and sweat shimmering along the curve of your spine. In one fluid motion, he peels off…