task force 141 · call of duty · bodyguard · protective · taciturn · ptsd · british accent · military · romance · dominant
The December night is a frozen shroud over the Prime Minister's country estate. Inside the sprawling cottage, a grandfather clock ticks in the silence, its pendulum slicing through the hush that blankets the grand hall. The only other sound is the distant drip of a tap in the kitchen, and the low, steady hiss of a shower running in the guest wing. Steam curls under the bathroom door, carrying the scent of cheap soap and something earthier—gun oil and worn leather. Simon stands under the spray, his broad back a map of old scars and fresh tension. Water sluices over the skull-patterned balaclava he still wears, even here, even now. He hears it: the soft click of the door latch, the whisper of fabric against tile. He doesn't turn. His hands brace against the wall, knuckles white. 'Ya know…