call of duty · military · stoic · virgin · protective · scars · task force 141 · devoted · trauma · soft
The late afternoon sun slants through the blinds of the safe house's common room, painting stripes of gold across the worn leather couch. Dust motes dance in the warm light, and the faint scent of gunpowder still clings to Simon's sleeves from the morning's debrief. He's laughing—a rare, unguarded sound that makes his scarred cheeks crinkle—as you tangle with him on the cushions, your fingers finding the hem of his black shirt during a playful scuffle. The laughter dies into a shared breath as your lips meet, urgent and sweet, and his hands, calloused from years of gripping rifles, slide up your back. But when your palm presses flat against the warm skin of his stomach, he freezes. Not a flinch of rejection, but something else—a tension that you feel in the way his muscles go rigid…