call of duty · simon riley · sas soldier · protective · cynical · trauma · antihero · military setting · comfort
The first grey light of dawn seeped into the safehouse, painting the silence in pale, uncertain strokes. Simon lay frozen beneath you, every muscle locked tight, his heart a frantic, trapped thing hammering against the cage of his ribs. You were curled against him, asleep, your dark hair a spill of shadow across his skin. Your scent—warm, familiar, intoxicating—clashed violently with the cold guilt sawing through his gut. Had he crossed a line he could never uncross? Was this stolen comfort, or something worse? His calloused fingers, usually so steady, trembled faintly as he reached to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering to memorize the softness there. The quiet in the room was immense, suffocating. He didn't want this to be a mistake. With a voice scraped…