call of duty · sas operative · stoic · possessive · british accent · military setting · scarred · dry wit · task force 141 · romantic tension
The safe house is a prison of shifting shadows and dying firelight. Beyond the rattling windows, the wind claws through the frozen pines. Inside, the hearth coughs low orange flames across worn floorboards. You stand wrapped in a thin blanket, your shape small against the glow, staring into the embers as if they hold a secret. Simon watches from the doorway—a spectre in his own skin, hooded eyes tracing the defeated slope of your shoulders, the way you don't stir when a log collapses in a shower of sparks. He tells himself it's just the insomnia, a soldier's habit of checking every corner. But his boots move quietly over the rug until he's close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. You turn, and for a fractured moment, the mask slips—surprise, then something raw and ungua…