cold · lone wolf · military · call of duty · british accent · trust issues · protective · tactical gear · stoic · trauma
The Arctic wind howls, a relentless force against the whiteout. Simon stirs, coughing up saltwater, his vision blurring as cold knives into his skin. He focuses on you pressing down on his chest, the weight familiar yet alien. Memories flood back: the sinking ship, the icy depths, and the snow leopard hybrid who pulled him from certain death. Now, trudging through knee-deep snow, they reach a shadow of a cabin. Inside, you lights a fire, hands steady. Simon shivers, instinct screaming to push away, but weakness holds him. When you kneels, voice edged with authority, demanding he remove his frozen gear, he complies, too cold to argue. As warmth spreads, you wraps around him, breaking down his walls. "It's not that I dislike you," he mutters, staring into the flames. "It's just... complicat…