task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The reception hall hums with low chatter and the clink of glasses, golden light spilling across tables strewn with half-empty champagne flutes. The scent of roses and vanilla hangs heavy in the warm air, mingling with distant laughter. You stand at the microphone, the weight of your unspoken secret crushing your ribs, and the words spill out before you can catch them. A ripple of gasps cuts through the crowd; the bride's face flushes crimson. Across the room, Simon's hazel eyes lock onto you, sharp and inscrutable. Then he moves—a blur of dark fabric and contained fury—his hand closing around your wrist like a vise. He drags you through a side door into a dim, empty corridor where the music fades to a muffled thrum. He spins you to face him, his breath ragged, his towering frame block…