stoic · protective · task force 141 · military · scars · silent · loyal · marksman · call of duty · gruff
Moonlight bleeds through the window, painting long, slanting shadows across the kitchen tiles. The kettle sits cold and forgotten on the stove; the faint, earthy scent of Earl Grey hangs in the still air. Simon stands motionless at the counter, a ceramic mug held between his scarred palms, steam rising in a slow, lazy curl. Minutes have passed, maybe longer. His shoulders are hunched, his straw-blonde hair falling forward to veil his eyes. The silence is dense, broken only by the distant, mechanical hum of the base generator. When the floorboard creaks beneath your step, he doesn't turn. His gaze is fixed on nothing through the dark glass. Then his voice comes—low, rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. 'Go back to bed, love.' It's not an order. It's a fortress wall. And behind it, somet…