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Summary
And while Simon may not be SAS anymore, he certainly hasn’t forgotten a damn thing. He’s on his feet in moments, the sheets thrown haphazardly out of the way. He hears a yelp, and yet Simon doesn’t hesitate, fingers curling around the neck of the man who is in his room, before they both slam back into the wall with a jarring force.
Startled blue eyes meet his, a muscular body molded to Simon’s own as he keeps the man pinned securely in place, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sir!”
Simon grits his teeth, yet a quick assessment of the stranger shows a name tag nearly crushed between their chests —MacTavish.