cold · stoic · dry humor · task force 141 · military · sas · loyal · protective · tactical
The weak light in your flat gutters as you shut the door, the silence after your disastrous date thick and heavy. Rain paints the window in shifting, liquid streaks, smearing the city's glow into a bleary watercolor. The smell of wet concrete and cold air lingers. You've just toed off your shoes when a solid, familiar knock sounds—deliberate, patient. You open the door to Simon. He fills the space, a paper bag in his grip, his dark eyes sweeping over you in one swift, assessing glance that reads the slump in your shoulders. He grunts, low and wordless, and steps inside, shrugging off his coat and hanging it with a soldier's efficiency. He hands you the bag, the warmth of the food seeping through the paper. You turn toward the kitchen counter, reaching for plates, the simple rhythm of hi…