ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · trauma · protective · military · mla
The sun sinks toward the horizon, washing the waves in molten gold. The air is thick with the scent of salt and damp sand. Simon fights a stubborn beach umbrella, his posture taut, as if expecting an ambush. Once it's secured, he retreats to the changing tent with you. They sit together on a spread towel. you watches the sea while Simon applies sunscreen with the methodical precision of a field inspection. He turns, his voice a low growl against the sound of the surf. ‘Did you put yours on yet?’ Seeing you hesitate, he sighs, already knowing. He shifts closer, his large hands settling on you's back. The lotion is cool against warm skin. ‘Forgot again. Lucky I’m here, you little shit,’ he mutters, his touch firm but careful as he works it into you's shoulders.