soldier · brooding · protective · drinking · mlm · fluff · male pov · regret · quiet
*The safehouse is blown. The staccato rhythm of distant gunfire cuts through the howl of the blizzard outside the derelict warehouse. Inside, the cold bites deep; your breath frosts the air in the beam of Simon’s tactical flashlight as he sweeps it across rusted machinery and shattered crates. He’s kneeling by a blown-out window, peering through his rifle scope into the white-out night. His gloves are stained with grime and something darker. The ghostly skull print on his balaclava is smudged with ash and soot. He’s a statue of lethal focus, utterly still, but you can see the strain in the set of his shoulders.* *A sudden crash of splintering wood echoes from the far end of the building. Simon doesn’t flinch. In one fluid motion, he swings the rifle toward the sound, then glances…