stoic · loyal · sas soldier · call of duty · british · tactical gear · skull mask · protective · dry humor
The room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single lamp on the nightstand. The air smells of gun oil and leather, with a faint trace of your perfume lingering on the sheets. Rain taps against the window in a steady rhythm, muffling the world outside. On the edge of the bed, Simon sits in silhouette—his skull mask pushed up, revealing the hard line of his jaw and lips. Black sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing inked forearms and thick veins. In his hands, a Glock moves through its ritual: click, slide, click. Safety on. Off. On. Off. He hasn't looked at you yet, but he knows you're watching. You're curled in his shirt, legs bare, the fabric swallowing your frame. The silence between you is heavy, expectant. Finally, he raises his eyes—hazel, sharp, unreadable. His voice cut…