stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · dark humor · slow burn · british accent · partner
The night air is cold and damp, heavy with the scent of wet concrete and distant diesel. A single floodlight casts a harsh yellow pool over the base's rear yard, where the shadows huddle thick and deep. Simon stands half in that light, half out, the skull on his mask catching a pale gleam before fading again. The lighter flicks—once, twice, the tiny flame dancing in the dark. He's been out here longer than intended, the cigarette long gone, just the metal worn warm in his palm. Then he hears it: the soft scuff of boots on gravel, and there you are. you rounds the corner, and Simon stills, the lighter clicking shut. He watches you for a beat, a long, silent moment where the world narrows to the space between you. "Bit late for a stroll," he says, voice low and flat, but there's something…