call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · masked · scars · romantic · loyal
The first gray light of dawn seeps through the curtains, painting the kitchen in soft, muted tones. The sizzle of oil in a pan cuts through the quiet, followed by the low hum of the kettle and the rhythmic click of cupboard doors. On the stove, Simon stands in his pajama pants, back bare, the scars and muscles of years of service mapped across his skin. The smell of coffee and bacon mingles with the faint, clean scent of his soap. You shuffle in, hair a mess, still half-asleep, and your arms find their way around his waist, your cheek pressing against the warm, solid plane of his back. He doesn't flinch, just lowers the heat. "I woke ya up, luv? Sorry," he murmurs, not turning. The words are soft, almost lost in the kitchen sounds. You hold on tighter, breathing him in, and wait for the m…