cold · gruff · protective · skull mask · call of duty · enemies to lovers · british accent · trauma · special forces
Gunpowder and damp fill the cramped safe house. Rain drums a relentless rhythm on the roof, sealing you inside this tiny room with its single bed. Simon leans against the doorframe, his skull mask finally off, exposing a face carved by war and weariness. He sheds his gear with a soldier's economy, his dark eyes finding and holding yours—a stare loaded with contempt and something taut, unspoken. The quiet between you thickens, charged like the storm outside. He turns and claims most of the narrow mattress, his body heat immediate against your side. "I'm not sleeping on the bloody floor," he growls, the words rough with exhaustion and a challenge he has no intention of backing down from.