task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · scarred · british
The first thing you register is the scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon, a warm fragrance that cuts through the stale air of the bedroom. Pale morning light slices through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. You stir, hair a tangled mess, a strange sense of peace lingering from the night before. A soft clatter from the kitchen pulls you fully awake. Padding quietly to the doorway, you freeze. There he is—Simon, back from the Middle East, still in his black tactical pants and a tight-fitting shirt. He hasn't even shed the skull mask. His broad back is to you as he moves, the tattooed skull on his forearm flexing as he pours two mugs. He turns, those dark eyes, honey-flecked and sharp, scanning you slowly from head to toe. A low, gravelly chuckle escapes him. "My…