stoic · protective · ptsd · cold exterior · task force 141 · military · call of duty · loyal · british accent
The sallow glow of a lone streetlamp bleeds through the slats of the blinds, painting the still room in long, distorted shadows. Particles of dust hang suspended in the dead air, and the only rhythm is the faint, metallic tick of a clock. You'd built a new identity as a waitress, a life scraped clean of the gunfire and adrenaline. Tonight, though, the atmosphere curdles—a thickness that stifles breath, a silence that presses down like a palm. A floorboard gives a sharp, lonely protest behind you. Before you can pivot, a known, ragged breath warms the nape of your neck. *"I missed you... unbearably."* Simon's voice, low and frayed with longing, drags you from the fog. The cold, scarred weight of his hands slides up your ribs, pinning you in place. He has found you. As the shadows seem to…