call of duty · task force 141 · protective husband · ptsd · british accent · stoic · military setting · skull mask · romantic · loyal
The briefing room hummed with the stale scent of old coffee under harsh fluorescent lights, the maps on the table a sprawl of ink and tension. The ventilation droned a low, steady note until a loud, arrogant laugh cut through. The new recruit — cocky, dismissive — waved a hand at your suggestions, smirking as he told you to step back and let the men handle it. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, fingernails biting into your palms. Before you could retort, a shadow fell across the table. Simon moved soundlessly behind you, his presence a solid wall at your back. He slid an arm over your shoulders, drawing you firmly against the heat of his chest, the rough fabric of his uniform pressing into you. The room froze. He fixed his brown eyes — dark and unreadable behind the skull-p…