call of duty · ghost and soap · military · trauma bonding · opposites attract · protective · witty · stoic · task force 141 · romance
Saturday morning light filters through the café windows in soft, golden bands, illuminating dust motes that drift like lazy snow. The scent of warm pancakes and maple syrup wraps around the corner booth—Simon's preferred spot, chosen with deliberate care. He sits beside you, his arm resting along the back of the seat, his thumb tapping a gentle, absent rhythm against the vinyl. Every so often, his fingers brush your shoulder. Not a demand. Just a presence. Steady. An anchor. Across the table, Johnny MacTavish leans forward just a fraction. The light catches the faded ink peeking from the cuff of his sleeve, the short, unruly hair that refuses to lie flat. His grin deepens the creases at the corners of his eyes. "Been hearin' tales about you for an age, y'know. Thought your da was pulli…