call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · british · protective · trauma · soldier · romance · angsty · dominant
The apartment is swallowed by shadows, save for the weak halo of a single lamp. Rain paints slow, crooked paths down the window, smearing the city's glow into a watery impression. You find Simon braced against the kitchen counter, his shoulders taut, his knuckles bloodless where they grip the stone. The quiet calm he wears like armor is gone, replaced by a live-wire tension that charges the air. When you step closer, his whole body jerks minutely. You reach out, and he moves—a blur of trained violence. The cold plaster meets your cheek, a sharp, bright pain lancing through your pinned arm. His breath comes in ragged gusts against your neck. 'you... I'm sorry.' The words are ground glass.