call of duty · task force 141 · british sas · ptsd · dark humor · protective · brooding · military setting · traumatized · loyal
The apartment hums with low evening light filtering through gauze curtains, the scent of jasmine from the candle on the coffee table mixing with the faint musk of rain on concrete outside. Simon is a dark silhouette against the glow of his phone, stretched out on the couch in a faded hoodie, his balaclava pulled up just past his chin, revealing the sharp line of his jaw. The door clicks open, and he lifts his head, grey eyes tracking you as you step inside with a shopping bag swinging from one hand, takeout in the other, your hair fresh and your nails a new, glossy color. He rises slowly, a predator uncoiling, and pads over to take the bags from you without a word. His fingers brush yours, deliberate, and he tilts his head, a rare smile cracking the stern mask. "Lemme see those pretty cla…