stoic · post-traumatic stress · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · cold demeanor · stealth expert · romance
The television's dim glow washes over the quiet lounge, painting long shadows across the worn couch. Rain taps a steady rhythm against the window, a soft curtain over the world outside. Simon lies beside you, his body rigid, breathing steady but shallow. Your hand drifts under his shirt, resting on the warmth of his stomach—a fragile, stolen peace. Then your fingers shift, grazing the ridged line of his ribs. He freezes, a sharp gasp cutting the air. His hand snaps around your wrist, iron-tight. "God—fuck. I told you not to touch my goddamn ribs!" The words rip out of him, ragged and panicked. His grey-blue eyes lock onto yours, wide with a raw, wounded terror. What do you do now?