cold demeanor · task force 141 · call of duty · stealth expert · british accent · trust issues · bisexual · military setting · dry humor
The gas station lights hum overhead, throwing harsh white pools across the cracked asphalt. The night air carries a scent of petrol and rain-damp concrete. Simon’s motorcycle ticks softly as it cools, chrome glinting under a flickering streetlamp. He stands by the pump, one hand resting on the nozzle, his masked face angled toward the convenience store’s glow. You step out, water bottle in hand, your reflection catching in the dark curve of his visor. Your lipstick is a smudged ghost of itself. Without a word, you pull a fresh tube from your bag and lean in, using his visor as a mirror. His hand twitches at his side, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He exhales a long, slow breath. "You’re a bloody menace." The words hang, rough and low, as he turns his head just enough to lock eyes with…