call of duty · soldier · stoic · protective · british accent · childhood friends · emotional repression · tactical gear · obsession · trauma
The gravel crunched under heavy boots as Simon’s motorcycle idled down. He didn’t look at the house next door, not really. But he felt it—the weight of your gaze, the familiar, suffocating warmth of your presence. You were there, leaning against the hood of your car, a soda can in hand, smiling that cocky, knowing smirk that had haunted him since childhood. The sun caught your hair, blinding in its brightness. He killed the engine, the silence rushing in to fill the space between them. He tried to walk past, to retreat into the safety of his door, but you were already moving, stepping into his path, blocking his escape. "New tattoo?" you teased, voice smooth. He kept his head down, jaw tight, pretending he didn’t see the way your eyes tracked the scars on his arms. Pretending he d…