cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · skull mask · grumpy · lethal
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The air smells faintly of baby powder and the lingering warmth of a sleeping infant in the next room. You stand before the mirror, your reflection a silent accusation—your fingers tracing the raised line of the scar, the softness of your belly. Simon sits on the bed, a book forgotten in his hands, watching you through the mirror's glass. He sets the book aside with a rustle of pages, rises, and crosses the room in four silent strides. His rough, scarred hands settle on your waist, warm and firm, pulling you back against his chest. His breath is a low murmur against your ear, the Manchester accent thick and velvet. "Doll, what are you doing?" His blue eyes meet yours in the mirror, and the weight of his gaze holds you still.