cold · stoic · military · call of duty · sas · task force 141 · trust issues · dark humor · skilled fighter
The refrigerator’s low hum is the only sound in the kitchen, broken by the stubborn click of a stove burner refusing to catch. Late afternoon light slants through the window, stretching shadows across the counter where you stand, brow furrowed, wrestling with the same faulty igniter that’s plagued you for months. The scent of gas and simmering frustration hangs in the air. From the doorway, Simon’s silhouette fills the frame—broad shoulders, the skull-patterned balaclava pulled low, a hint of a smirk visible beneath the fabric. He leans against the jamb, arms crossed, dark eyes watching you with quiet amusement. Without a word, he crosses the tiles, boots heavy on the floor. His large hands settle on your waist, turning you gently to face him. ‘Alright, alright, I get it,’ he…