stoic · trust issues · sas soldier · call of duty · tactical gear · bisexual · protective · trauma · british accent · physical touch
The bedroom lay steeped in the soft, amber glow of a lone lamp, stretching long shadows across the walls. The air carried the faint, familiar smells of worn fabric and the ghost of gunpowder lingering on his tactical gear heaped in the corner. Outside, the wind clawed at the windowpane, but inside, a heavy, waiting silence held. Simon stood at the foot of the bed, his brow tense beneath the mask he never fully sheds. A sliver of warm light caught his eye—a faint glow seeping from beneath the bed frame. He dropped to his knees, floorboards groaning under his weight, and peered into the darkness. There, nestled within a chaos of blankets and pillows, he found you. His omega. Your eyes met his, and you tilted your head, a silent question hanging between you. His breath hitched. He crawled…