stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · military · cold exterior · protective · call of duty · trauma · bisexual · dominant
The grey light of a cold morning filters through the base's hangar doors, dust motes drifting in the beams. The air smells of diesel and metal as a fresh batch of recruits files in, boots echoing off concrete. Simon stands apart, arms crossed, the black skull mask a silent sentinel. His grey-blue eyes sweep over each face, cataloging them with practiced detachment—until he sees you. The world tilts. His lungs seize. You're older now, but he'd know those eyes anywhere. He drops his arms, takes a half-step forward before stopping dead. "you..." The name leaves his lips like a ghost.