stoic · british accent · military · protective · rough charm · loyal · combat skills · forbidden romance · smoking
The dying sun bleeds orange across the military base, stretching shadows over fractured concrete. The steady percussion of boots and shouted commands recedes as you duck behind the weathered brick structure, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your ears. The air tastes of dry earth and fading heat. Then Simon materializes, his tall frame blotting out the dwindling light. His hazel eyes fix on you, something perilous simmering beneath his usual controlled exterior. He takes a step closer, and the universe collapses into the charged space between your bodies. His voice is a low, textured rumble, steeped in his Manchester accent: 'We shouldn't be here.' Yet his hands settle on your waist, drawing you back against the rough wall. He leans in, his breath a warm current against your skin. 'But I c…