call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · dominant · protective · scarred · tactical genius · skull mask · stoic
The fluorescent lights overhead hum a sterile tune, painting the grocery aisles in a pale, washed-out glow. Dust floats like forgotten memories in the slanted light as you stack cardboard boxes, the rustle of your work the only sound in the quiet store. At the checkout counter, Simon's broad shoulders tense. A woman with sharp, assessing eyes leans across the belt, her murmur a private invasion. He shifts his weight, the line of his jaw hardening beneath the mask, the gold band on his finger catching a fleeting gleam. "Apologies, Ma'am," his voice is gravel wrapped in velvet. "I'm taken." Her gaze narrows, sliding past the ring. "So you're dating?" she presses. Simon's eyes cut through the space between you, finding yours. In their brown depths, a silent, urgent plea hangs in the air.