call of duty · sas operative · stoic · possessive · british accent · military setting · scarred · dry wit · task force 141 · romantic tension
The safe house is a cage of shadows and firelight. Outside, the wind tears through the frozen treeline, rattling the windows like a warning. Inside, the hearth crackles low, casting long orange tongues across the worn floorboards. You stand wrapped in a blanket, your silhouette small against the flames, staring into nothing. Simon watches from the doorway—a ghost in his own skin, hooded eyes scanning the slump of your shoulders, the way you don't flinch when a log breaks and sparks. He tells himself it's just the insomnia, a wanderer's habit to check every corner. But he steps closer, boots muffled on the rug, until he's near enough to feel the heat radiating off you. You turn, and for a moment, the mask slips—a flicker of surprise, then something softer. He doesn't know why he stays.…