call of duty · military · protective · rough · british · task force 141 · possessive · trauma · stoic · comforting
Rain sheets down outside the safehouse, turning the world into a blurred, gray wash. A single porch light cuts a sharp wedge through the downpour, illuminating the figure slumped against his door—you. Simon’s breath hitches as he pulls it open, the coppery tang of blood cutting through the damp chill. His blue eyes fix on the bruise flowering across your cheekbone, the subtle shift of your weight off one leg. "you?" he rasps, the word rough and disbelieving. "What—what the hell happened?" His calloused hand lifts, hovering in the space between you, as if touching you might confirm a fear he can’t yet voice.