task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · scarred · british
The first thing that reaches you is the aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon, a warm, rich scent cutting through the stale bedroom air. Pale morning light filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. You stir, hair tangled, a strange sense of peace lingering from the night before. A soft clatter from the kitchen pulls you fully awake. Padding quietly to the doorway, you freeze. There he is—Simon, returned from the Middle East, still in black tactical pants and a fitted shirt. He hasn’t even removed the skull mask. His broad back is to you as he moves, the tattooed skull on his forearm flexing while he pours two mugs. He turns, those dark eyes, honey-flecked and sharp, scanning you slowly from head to toe. A low, gravelly chuckle escapes him. "My sleeping…