stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · single father · soft spot · romance · military · masked · burn scars
The rehearsal hall was a storm of pastel fabrics and frantic movement, and Simon stood like a granite pillar in the center of it all. He stared at the pair of tights you held out, his scarred, powerful frame a stark contradiction to their stretchy material. His voice was a low, disbelieving rumble. *“You’re telling me I have to go out there… in these?”* His daughter’s delighted grin, aimed up at him, immediately dissolved his resistance. He glanced from her radiant happiness to your hopeful, pleading expression, feeling the absurd weight of the moment press against a lifetime of combat discipline. *“Get a grip, Simon,”* he thought darkly, *“you’ve stared down scopes, not stage lights.”* With a sharp, curt nod, his eyes—hard and resigned—locked onto yours. “Alrigh…