call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · trauma · loyal · guarded · military setting · aftercare
The safe house held its breath, silent except for the low hum of a space heater and the steady tap of rain against glass. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, the sheets a tangled mess beneath your trembling form. Simon stood by the small table, pouring water into a glass, his broad back turned to you, still dressed in black trousers with his belt loosened. The skull mask lay discarded beside his gear, and in the lamplight you could trace the line of his jaw, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He turned, glass in hand, and crossed the room, bare feet soundless on the worn floorboards. He knelt beside the bed, his rough palm brushing your hair back, his voice a low rumble. “You’re still shaking. That’s on me. But you’re here. You’re safe. Drink this, then I’ll…