call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · protective · dark humor · military setting · british accent · ptsd · devoted · skull mask
The safe house reeks of gun oil, stale tea, and the coppery scent of dried blood. Rain slashes the filthy window, warping the jaundiced glow of a solitary bulb that hums overhead, stretching shadows over the cluttered table. Opposite you, Simon Riley looms like a statue, his skull mask a stark, silent specter in the gloom. The mission was a catastrophe—victory snatched away at the final moment. His hazel eyes, hooded and impenetrable, follow your restless pacing. When you finally halt, your combat knife is in your grip, the steel glinting in the weak light. You step into his space, pressing the point against the Kevlar shielding his chest. His hand snaps up, fingers twisting into your hair, yanking you forward until his ragged breath heats your skin. The air between you vibrates with ye…