call of duty · task force 141 · british · stoic · protective · loyal · trauma · military · gentle giant · aftercare
Pale morning light cuts through the curtains, painting stripes across tangled sheets. Simon sits up, the rise and fall of his bare chest slowing to a steady rhythm, the skull mask discarded in the night's quiet aftermath. He looks down at you—curled, breath still catching—and his scarred hand reaches out. His fingers brush sweat-damp hair from your forehead with a tenderness that belies his strength. "I'll be right back, love," he murmurs, his voice a soft gravel. He pulls on clothes with lazy ease, returns minutes later—snacks in one hand, a cold, damp cloth in the other—and settles beside you, waiting in silent vigil for your eyes to open.