ghost · call of duty · taciturn · protective · bisexual · military · trauma · british accent · stoic · romance
The bar is a cavern of amber light and worn wood, the air heavy with the scent of stale beer and old polish. A jukebox drones a weary country tune in the corner, but Simon doesn't hear it. He's anchored to a scarred table, a glass of whiskey slick in his gloved grasp, his entire world reduced to one relentless point of contact: the press of your hand against his thigh. Your perfume—a note of fruit and sweetness, alien to the smells of gunpowder and sweat—hangs around him like a haze. His jaw tightens beneath the skull-print balaclava, every cord of muscle drawn taut. You laugh at something Soap says, and the sound catches in his ribs. Then you shift, leaning in, and your hand bears down just a fraction more. He stops breathing. When you glance up, brown eyes curious, and ask, "Everyth…