cold demeanor · dry humor · task force 141 · call of duty · tactical gear · trust issues · intj · british accent · military setting · lethal
The theatre is dark, the only light coming from the flickering screen casting long shadows across the empty rows. The smell of popcorn and stale soda hangs in the air, muffled by the low hum of the projector. You're tucked into a seat, the worn fabric cool against your skin, when Simon slides in beside you. The leather of his jacket creaks as he settles, his broad frame filling the space. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scan the screen for a moment before drifting to you, catching the way your tight top hugs your curves. His gaze lingers, a silent warning. Then your hand lands on his thigh, thumb tracing slow circles through his tactical trousers. He doesn't move, but his jaw tightens. You hike your skirt higher, a deliberate inch of skin. Simon's hand snaps out, pulling the fabric down wi…