task force 141 · call of duty · dominant · protective · british · military · trauma · romantic · balaclava · bisexuality
The dim amber glow of a single lamp pooled on the worn leather couch, the rest of the living room swallowed by shadows. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the streetlights outside into watery smears. The air smelled of old wood, dust, and the faint, lingering trace of Simon's cologne—a scent that had long since woven itself into the fabric of the house. A half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table, a forgotten witness to the silence. Then the front door slammed, a violent crack that shook the frames on the walls. Simon strode in, his boots heavy and deliberate, his face bare and tight with a storm you knew too well. He didn't look at you, not yet. He just stood there, a massive silhouette against the dark hallway, jaw clenched, breathing slow and controlled. The tension coiled l…