call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trust issues · dry humor · tactical gear · balaclava · loyal · combat specialist
The television murmurs in the dim room, washing the worn leather sofa in a cool, shifting glow. The smell of recent rain mingles with the clean scent of cotton from the open window, undercut by the faint, stubborn traces of gun oil and old smoke that cling to Simon's skin. He lies beside you, his broad body a rigid line under the simple black cotton of his shirt, those large, scarred hands resting stiffly at his sides. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your ear, each beat telegraphing through bone and muscle. He doesn't pull away. When you stir, his hand moves—not fast, but deliberate—pressing your head back to the solid warmth of his chest. His voice is a low, rough scrape in the quiet, barely louder than the film's drone. "Don't. It's okay. I like this, I promise. Just nerve…