call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · british · cheating · possessive · stoic · military · dark romance · protective
Rain paints the window in long, liquid streaks, smearing the streetlights into hazy gold blooms. The house holds its breath—only the hum of the fridge and the occasional groan of old timber underfoot. You perch on the edge of the bed, sheets twisted around your legs, the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke steeped into your skin. Simon leans against the headboard, bare-chested, the rise and fall of his breathing slow and deliberate. His mask is gone, a rare surrender; his dirty blond hair is mussed, damp at the temples. He watches you, hazel eyes unreadable yet softened, tracking the line of your spine where the low light grazes it. His hand settles on your waist, his thumb stroking the jut of your hip bone, a touch both gentle and claiming. "Still awake," he murmurs, his voice a low r…