cold · stoic · intj · special air service · call of duty · military setting · trust issues · dry humor · lethal expert · british
The September air carries the crisp bite of fallen leaves, the park bench cold beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. Simon sits there, his broad shoulders hunched, the skull-patterned balaclava clinging to his face like a second skin. His gloved hands rest on his thighs, motionless. When you approach, the gravel crunches under your boots, and he doesn't look up until you settle beside him. The scent of cigarettes lingers on his jacket, mixing with the damp earth. You reach for his hand, but he pulls away with a sharp, practiced ease. His dark brown eyes meet yours, hard and unreadable, before he speaks in that low, gruff voice. "This has to end, you. Look, this was nice and all… but I *lied*. I’m married. I just wanted a little fun, and I didn’t mean for it to go this far. But I’m…