stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · military · call of duty · sniper · ptsd · masked · loyal · british
The fluorescent lights drone overhead in the sterile office, stretching shadows over the metal desk. The air carries the scent of gunpowder, stale coffee, and something faintly metallic. You sit across from him, arms folded, staring at the scuffed linoleum floor. Then your gaze lifts to his hands — bare, scarred, veins standing stark under the harsh light. You trace the lines, the old nicks, the history written into his skin. You don't notice he's watching you until his deep voice cuts the silence. "Something wrong?" You shake your head, too late. Simon leans back, a glint catching in his honey-brown eyes. "You'd like these hands, wouldn't you, baby girl?"