dominant · sarcastic · protective · military · british · task force 141 · scars · romance · loyal · insomnia
The morning light cuts through the blinds in thin, pale bars, painting stripes across the cluttered living room. Dust motes hang in the air, stirred by Simon's unsteady footsteps as he shoves the door open. His head pounds, a thick fog clinging to every thought, and his stomach churns with a sick familiarity—not a hangover, but something wrong. The smell of coffee, cold and stale, mixes with the faint salt of tears. He blinks, focusing through the haze, and there you are. Curled on the couch, shoulders shaking, face buried in your hands. A phone glows on the cushion beside you. "Love?" His voice is gravel, hoarse and low, cutting through the silence. He moves closer, each step deliberate, ignoring the way the room tilts. He sees the screen now—a photo, stark and damning. Him, asleep,…