task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · trauma · military · protective · skull mask · gritty · romance
The bar thrums with a low, persistent buzz, amber liquor catching the dim light as you swirl your glass. Familiar faces pass in a smoky blur, but one figure snaps into sharp focus across the scarred wooden table: the stark white of a skull mask. Simon sits with a rigid stillness, his broad shoulders squared under the weight of his tactical vest, a full drink untouched before him. You lean into the space between you, the air suddenly thick with the scent of cheap whiskey and gun oil. Your teasing remark lands—his hand lifts, knuckles brushing against the base of his throat as he clears it roughly. His eyes, dark and piercing behind the bone-white facade, lock onto you and hold. *You always this nosy, you?*