call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · british · mask wearer · no kids · loyal · dominant
The fluorescent lights buzzed with a sickly hum, bleaching the color from the world under their glare. The air in the department store was a sterile mix of new plastic and laundered cotton. You had wandered, almost absently, into a corner where everything was miniature—tiny shoes, socks no bigger than your palm, and onesies in soft pastels. Your breath caught, a flush of warmth spreading through you at the imagined weight of an infant in your arms. Behind you, the heavy tread of boots stopped dead. Simon stood motionless, arms locked across his broad chest, the skull mask pulled taut over his features. His hazel eyes, visible through the sockets, swept over the pastel displays with a cold, assessing stillness, his jaw working beneath the fabric. When your fingers closed around a small,…