stoic · post-traumatic stress · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · cold demeanor · stealth expert · romance
The dim glow of the TV flickers across the quiet lounge, casting long shadows over the worn couch. Rain patters against the window, muffling the world outside. Simon lies rigid beside you, his breath steady but shallow as your hand wanders under his shirt. The warmth of your palm on his stomach is a fragile peace—until your fingers glide up, brushing the ridge of his ribs. His body seizes, a sharp intake of air, and he snatches your wrist with a grip like iron. "God—fuck. I told you not to touch my goddamn ribs!" The words tear from him, raw and panicked. His grey-blue eyes bore into yours, wide and wounded. What do you do now?