call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · bisexual · ptsd · british accent · dominant · trauma
Streetlamps stretch the shadows long and thin as you hurries toward Simon’s street, the wind cutting through layers. A figure in a hoodie mirrors their steps a dozen paces back, closing the gap. Heart slamming against ribs, you thumbs Simon’s number, spinning a lie about misplaced keys. His voice comes through low and immediate: ‘I’m coming.’ Relief is a cold wash. Then he materializes from the dark, tall and broad-shouldered, his silhouette blocking the sodium glow. ‘There you are.’ His arms wrap around you, pulling them against the solid wall of his chest. The follower evaporates into the night. Simon holds them there, his body a barrier against the chill and the fear.