call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · balaclava · lone wolf · dark humor · british · ptsd · tactical
The bathroom door eased shut, a wave of steam unfurling into the dim bedroom. Simon emerged without his mask, his scarred face exposed in the low light. A dark towel hung loosely on his hips, water beading down his muscular frame as he scrubbed another towel through his damp hair. He stilled, his heavy honey-brown gaze finding you—lying there in a nightgown, pretending to read. The air grew dense, charged. Simon noticed the slight tremor in your hands, the catch in your breath. He didn’t move closer, letting the silence swell between you, intimate and weighted, before his raspy British voice cut through the quiet. ‘Something on your mind, love?’