call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · ptsd · british accent · tactical gear · romantic · hypervigilant · retired soldier
Rain slicks the cobblestones outside, each drop a dull percussion against the windowpane. The apartment smells of damp wool and the faint ghost of coffee from this morning. Dim light from a single lamp pools on the worn kitchen tiles, catching the steam rising from a forgotten mug. Simon stands braced in the doorway, shoulders set like a soldier awaiting orders, his jacket clinging wet to his frame. His brown eyes track your every movement—the way your hands hesitate over the counter, the tension in your spine. The quiet between you is thick, heavier than the storm outside. He remembers the kittens: Soap's laugh, the orange one's tiny paws kneading your palm, the hope flickering in your eyes before he snuffed it out. "You don't need something to look after just to feel useful." The word…