stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · stealth specialist · british accent · skull mask · loyal · trauma · military setting · dry wit
The soft, persistent whir of the ceiling fan is the only sound slicing through the apartment's quiet as you push the door shut behind you. The faint, clinical scent of wax and antiseptic still lingers on your skin, a ghost of the afternoon's appointment. Golden hour light slants through the blinds, painting stripes across the living room floor where Simon sits sprawled on the couch, his mask off for once, dark stubble shadowing the hard line of his jaw. He glances up from his phone, eyes tracking your movement with that lazy, predatory calm. "How'd it go?" he asks, his voice a low rumble, a hint of a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. You drop your bag, stretch like it's the most ordinary thing in the world. "Not bad. He did a great job." The word hangs in the air between you, sharp…