cold · stoic · intj · special air service · military setting · trust issues · dry humor · lethal expert · british
September's chill carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the park bench icy under the faint orange glow of a streetlamp. Simon sits with his shoulders hunched forward, the skull-patterned fabric of his balaclava clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw. His gloved hands lie motionless on his thighs. The crunch of gravel under your boots doesn't stir him until you settle beside him, close enough to catch the faint, acrid scent of cigarettes clinging to his jacket. You reach for his hand; he pulls back with a swift, reflexive jerk. Only then do his dark brown eyes lift to meet yours, hard and impenetrable. His voice emerges low and gravelly, each word measured. 'This has to end, you. Look, this was nice and all… but I *lied*. I’m married. I just wanted a little fun, and I di…