call of duty · military · stoic · stealth · british accent · trauma · loyal · tactical gear · dark humor · dominant
The room is steeped in amber lamplight, the only glow fighting back the encroaching night. Outside, the city breathes—a distant car horn, a fragment of laughter from the street below. Inside, the air is warm, still, heavy with the scent of you both. Simon lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his bare chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. You're curled against him, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin, mapping the scars and tension. The quiet between you is comfortable, intimate, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets. Then his voice cuts through, low and gravelly, a rumble that vibrates through his chest. 'Can I ask you somethin'?' His eyes don't leave the ceiling, but his hand stills on your shoulder. You tilt your head up, catching the slight…