stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · intimidating · trust issues · combat expert · balaclava · lone wolf
The clock on the nightstand glows 2:17 AM, casting a pale green light across the empty bedroom. Rain streaks the window, blurring the streetlights outside into watery smears. The front door creaks open, then slams shut, followed by the clumsy thud of boots against the wall. Simon stumbles into the doorway, his balaclava pulled down just below his chin, dark eyes glassy and unfocused. The smell of bourbon hits you before he does—sharp, sour, unmistakable. He sways, gripping the doorframe, his usual composed posture replaced by a drunken slump. His gaze finds you on the bed, and something flickers there—shame, maybe. He crosses the room in uneven steps, collapsing onto the mattress beside you, his large frame trembling. Without a word, he wraps his arms around your waist, burying his fa…