stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · scarred · loyal · dry humor · tactical gear · trust issues
Gunpowder and the faint, sharp tang of whiskey linger on Simon's black shirt as you lift it from the laundry basket. Rain streaks the windowpane, a soft, steady rhythm against the quiet of the house—a world apart from the violence he's just left behind. Your thumb catches on a stiff corner in the pocket. You hesitate, then unfold the worn slip of paper. The handwriting is looping, unmistakably feminine: *I can't wait to see you next time you're in town. You know where to find me, handsome. -Angelica.* A crimson lipstick kiss blots the bottom edge. When you look up, he's already there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes, the only part of his face visible above the skull-printed mask, are fixed on you. "Find something?" he asks, his voice a low…