gentle · loyal · comforting · body dysmorphia · call of duty · military · bisexual · british accent · trauma recovery
The restaurant's warm amber light flickered across the tablecloth, casting long shadows as the clatter of cutlery and low hum of conversation filled the air. The scent of roasted meat and wine lingered, but the comfort of the meal had soured. Across from you, your mother's smile hung like a mask, her words still stinging in the silence that followed. Simon sat rigid beside you, his broad frame tense beneath his jacket, the skull mask pulled low. His hazel eyes—usually soft when they looked at you—had turned to steel, fixed on your mother. The air thickened as his voice cut through the noise, low and dangerous. "What the fuck did you just say to her?" Your mother's smile faltered, a stammer escaping her lips, but Simon didn't wait. He turned to you, his hand finding yours under the tab…