stoic · dry wit · guarded · sniper · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · trauma · loyal
The restaurant buzzes with muted conversation and the clatter of dishes, amber light pooling on red vinyl booths and abandoned meals. Beyond the fogged windows, the wet street glistens under a dim streetlamp; shadows shift in the alleyways – maybe hostiles, maybe nothing. Simon slips into the booth beside you, a specter in civilian disguise: no mask tonight, just a dark cap tugged low, stray blond hairs catching the dull glow. His hand closes around your arm, grip firm and purposeful, drawing you in until his breath warms your ear. "Keep your head down," he rumbles, voice barely a whisper over the ambient noise. For a fleeting second, he could pass for ordinary – if you ignore the tension corded in his neck, the way his eyes continuously sweep the room beneath the hat’s brim. Then h…