call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · ptsd · protective · skull mask · british accent · slow burn romance
The fluorescent lights in the briefing room drone a low, sterile note, painting harsh angles on the concrete. The air still carries the op's signature scent—cordite and dried sweat, a bitter perfume that clings to every vest and boot. Outside, the wind worries the hangar doors, a restless sound that echoes the tight coil of tension in Simon's chest. He leans against the far wall, arms folded, the skull mask a pale watchman in the gloom. His eyes track you's movement across the room—the subtle catch in his step, the unconscious clench of his jaw when he believes himself unobserved. Price dismisses the team with a curt nod, and the others file out, their boots scuffing the linoleum. But Simon waits. He's seen this script before. you delivers the usual line—"I'm fine"—voice a beat to…