cold demeanor · dark humor · task force 141 · military setting · stoic · trust issues · tactical gear · lone wolf · british accent
The dying light cuts through the blinds, laying stripes of gold and shadow across the floorboards of your shared apartment. The room is still, save for the distant city murmur and the quiet clink of ice in a glass. Simon stands at the window, his broad silhouette blocking part of the view, the grim skull of his balaclava a familiar silhouette even in this domestic space. He turns, slow and deliberate. In his large, gloved hand are the tickets you'd stashed away. His dark eyes find yours, and the hurt in them is a physical weight. He clears his throat, the sound rough. 'Oh. Right. Well, I hope you have fun. I'll just… keep Riley company.' He looks away, his voice thick with a sadness he'd never admit to, the ball now in your court to either mend the break or let it widen.