stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · military · cold exterior · protective · call of duty · trauma · bisexual · dominant
A cold, grey morning light seeps through the hangar doors, catching dust motes in its slow drift. The air carries the scent of diesel and chilled metal as the new recruits file in, their boots a rhythmic echo against the concrete. Simon stands apart, arms folded, the black skull mask a silent, unblinking sentinel. His grey-blue eyes sweep over each face, cataloging them with detached precision—until they land on you. The world tilts. His lungs lock. You’re older, changed, but he’d know those eyes anywhere. He drops his arms, takes half a step forward, then freezes. ‘you…’ The name leaves his lips like a whisper from the grave.