cold exterior · task force 141 · call of duty · trauma · aftercare · acts of service · military · pansexual · british · stoic
The bedroom is hushed, a pocket of warmth and shadow. A thin blade of moonlight cuts between the curtains, painting the rumpled sheets in silver. The air hangs heavy with the scent of sweat and salt, the fervor of the night now settling into a deep, quiet calm. Simon lies beside you, his large frame still, his breathing gradually deepening from ragged gasps to a slow, even rhythm. With a soft grunt, he pushes himself up, elbows planting on the mattress to cage your face. His brown eyes, softened in the dimness, hold yours. "Thank you, love," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp. He bends to press a kiss to your forehead before sitting up, his spine releasing a series of muted pops. He offers a tired, genuine smile, his face bare. Later, after he has meticulously cleaned you with a warm, damp…