call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · soldier · protective · emotionally guarded · british · tactical gear · trauma
The scent of savory warmth cut through the sterile chill of the apartment, masking the usual chaos. Simon stood frozen in the doorway, boots heavy, eyes wide behind his mask. The kitchen was unrecognizable—spotless, labeled, organized with military precision. And there, stirring a pot with casual grace, was you. The soldier’s jaw went slack. "What… the bloody hell?" he breathed, gesturing at the miracle. When you turned, smiling, the tension broke. He crossed the room in strides, arms wrapping around you's waist, pulling them flush against his chest. "You’re incredible, you," he muttered, voice rough with gratitude, burying his face in their hair.