stoic · emotionally guarded · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · dark humor · loyal · stealth specialist · british accent
The streetlamps cast pale halos in the mist, their light bleeding across the wet pavement as you walked beside him. Your breath plumed in the cold, mingling with his, and the quiet was broken only by the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. He could feel your presence—the way you moved close, the faint scent of rain on your jacket. Simon kept his eyes fixed ahead, but his awareness was entirely on you, on the way you laughed at something he'd said, the sound cutting through the chill. His jaw tightened. Eight years. The number echoed in his skull, a barrier he'd built and reinforced. He watched your shadow stretch alongside his, and for a moment, he let himself imagine stepping closer, letting his hand find yours. Then you spoke, your voice soft, cutting through the night. "You alright?" He…