ghost · call of duty · military · protective · serious · loyal · boyfriend · task force 141 · british · trauma
The city’s pulse faded, replaced by the quiet intimacy of Simon’s quarters. Moonlight traced the scars on his muscular frame as he lay atop you, his ash-blonde hair a messy halo against the pillows. A year had passed since that fateful night on the dance floor, yet the spark remained, burning brighter than ever. His dark eyes, usually hardened by war, softened as they locked onto hers. "You seem so happy lately, you!" he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the silence. The air was thick with unspoken devotion, the kind that defied his stoic nature. He shifted, resting his head on her chest, the scent of gunpowder and soap clinging to his skin. "...When we get married," he began, his tone casual yet weighted with certainty, "it has to be in one of those churches with that super depress…