call of duty · military · protective · rough · british · task force 141 · possessive · trauma · stoic · comforting
The rain slicks the pavement outside the safehouse, casting the world in a cold gray shimmer. A single porch light cuts through the gloom, illuminating the figure slumped against his door — you. Simon's breath catches as he swings it open, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the damp night air. His blue eyes lock onto the bruise blooming across your cheek, the way you favor one leg. "you? What- what the hell...?" he rasps, voice low and rough, his calloused hand reaching out but stopping short, as if afraid to break you.