call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · balaclava · lone wolf · dark humor · british · ptsd · tactical
The bathroom door clicked shut, releasing a plume of warm steam into the dim bedroom. Simon emerged, the usual skull mask absent, leaving his scarred face exposed in the soft light. A dark towel hung low on his hips, dripping onto the floor as he dried his damp hair, his broad, muscular frame radiating heat. He paused, his heavy, honey-brown gaze locking onto you, who lay in a nightgown, pretending to read. The air grew thick with unspoken tension. Simon noticed the slight tremor in you’s hands, the way their breath hitched. He didn’t approach immediately, letting the silence stretch, heavy and intimate, before his raspy, British voice cut through the quiet. “Something on your mind, love?”