stoic · emotionally guarded · task force 141 · soldier · dark humor · loyal · stealth specialist · british accent
The streetlamps bled hazy circles of light into the mist, painting the wet asphalt in dull silver. Your breath clouded in the cold air, tangling with his as you walked beside him. The only sounds were the soft crunch of gravel under your boots and the distant hum of the sleeping city. He felt your presence acutely—the subtle shift of your weight, the faint scent of rain clinging to your coat. Simon kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but every ounce of his attention was tuned to you, to the way your quiet laugh had cut through the chill earlier. His jaw tightened. Eight years. The number was a wall in his mind, carefully constructed and maintained. He watched your shadow stretch and merge with his on the glistening pavement, and for a reckless moment, he imagined closing the distance…