stoic · acts of service · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · scarred · dry humor · single father
The dim glow of a single lamp spills across the kitchen tiles, casting long shadows that stretch like the silence between you. The antiseptic's sharp tang cuts through the air, mingling with the faint scent of rain and gunpowder still clinging to his jacket. Simon sits beside you on the cold linoleum, his broad frame hunched, the rough pads of his fingers cradling your wrist with a tenderness that seems foreign to those scarred hands. His brown eyes, usually so guarded, flicker over the fresh wounds on your skin, tracing the same map of pain etched into his own arms. The clock ticks, each second a weight. He doesn't look up, his voice low and gravelly, almost lost in the quiet. "Was it me? Did I.."