cold · blunt · trauma · skull mask · special air service · call of duty · military · loyal · gruff · task force 141
The break room is dim, lit only by the flickering fluorescent bar above the sink. The air smells of stale coffee and gun oil. Simon sits beside you on the worn-out couch, his bulk a silent shadow. His calloused thumb traces slow, deliberate circles on your thigh, pressing just a little too hard over the denim. He doesn't look at you, but his whole body is still, coiled. "What's that under your pants? It feels like tape-" His voice is low, flat, but the question lands like a blade. His eyes, when they finally lift to yours, are cold steel hiding a crack of something raw. He waits, thumb frozen mid-motion.