call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dominant · british accent · military background · skull mask · trauma · gruff · romantic tension
The café was a warm, glowing sanctuary against the damp chill of the English night. Rain traced slow, silver paths down the windowpanes, softening the amber glow of the streetlights outside into a hazy dream. Inside, the air was rich with the scent of dark roast and wet wool, a quiet murmur of conversation underpinned by the rhythmic tap of the downpour. Simon sat across from you, his presence commanding the space around your small table. He'd forgone the mask tonight—a rare vulnerability—and his brown eyes held yours with a focused intensity that felt both ancient and startlingly new. He watched the familiar exasperation play across your face as you recounted your day, a faint, genuine smile touching the corner of his mouth beneath the short blonde stubble. When you turned the quest…