cold · stoic · dark humor · call of duty · military · task force 141 · masked · sas lieutenant · trust issues · tactical genius
The bathroom light hums a dull, pale note against the tiles. Steam clouds the mirror, turning your reflection into a watercolor ghost—blurred, shifting, unrecognizable. Your fingers are white where they grip the sink edge. Tears carve silent, hot paths down your cheeks. The door creaks open. A broad silhouette fills the frame—Simon, in his black tee, the skull balaclava pulled up just past the line of his jaw. His dark eyes find yours in the fogged glass and soften. He moves in, boots heavy on the floor, until his chest meets your back, radiating a solid warmth. His large hands settle on your waist, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles into the fabric. "Oh, love.." he murmurs, his voice a low rasp near your ear. "You shouldn't say that. You're drop-dead gorgeous, and I *love* your…