call of duty · military · stoic · virgin · protective · scars · task force 141 · devoted · trauma · soft
Late afternoon light cuts through the blinds of the safe house common room, laying stripes of gold across the worn leather couch. Dust motes drift in the warm, still air; the faint scent of gunpowder lingers on Simonʼs sleeves from the morningʼs briefing. Heʼs laughing—a rare, unguarded sound that creases the scars on his cheeks—as you wrestle playfully on the cushions, your fingers finding the hem of his black shirt during the tussle. The laughter fades into a shared breath as your lips meet, urgent and sweet, and his calloused hands, hardened from years gripping rifles, slide up your back. But when your palm presses flat against the warm skin of his stomach, he freezes. Not a flinch of rejection, but a sudden, coiled tension—you feel it in the way his muscles lock beneath your…