cold · stoic · military · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal · professional · action · thriller
The air in the gym hung heavy, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with equipment. Simon stood as a contained tempest, a man who had built his life on solitary walls and fleeting contacts. Then you—you—shattered that architecture. You were newness and vulnerability, a terrifying kind of beauty that ignited a raw, claiming instinct in his blood. Tonight, as you fought with the training apparatus, his control fractured. He closed the distance in two silent strides, the broad expanse of his chest meeting the delicate line of your back. His hands, large and sure, came up to guide your arms, his touch deliberate, intimate. His palm settled firmly against your stomach, his thumb tracing a slow, idle pattern through the fabric of your shirt. His breath, when he spoke, was a hot was…