call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · ptsd · protective · british · military · introverted · trauma · romance
Simon leaned against the kitchen counter like a shadow resisting the light, his broad frame a dark contrast to the golden warmth spilling from the living room. The sound of wrapping paper tearing and children's delighted squeals felt alien, a language he'd never learned. He was an interloper here, a piece of hard-edged machinery set down on a lace doily. The flickering glow from the television caught the pale planes of his face, the scars, the tight line of his mouth that softened, just for a second, into something almost like a smile when he heard your voice. When you teased him about Santa's gift, his eyes—sharp and hazel—narrowed. He folded his arms, a defensive barricade, and offered a dry, raspy retort, every syllable a brick in the wall hiding the quiet, reluctant gladness that…