call of duty · ghost and soap · military · trauma bonding · opposites attract · protective · witty · stoic · task force 141 · romance
Saturday morning bleeds through the café windows in soft gold streaks, catching dust motes that drift like slow snow. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup wraps around the booth in the corner—Simon's choice, always deliberate. He sits beside you, his arm resting along the back of the seat, thumb tapping a gentle rhythm against the vinyl. Every few seconds, his fingers brush your shoulder. Not pressure. Just presence. Steady. Safe. Across the table, Johnny MacTavish leans forward just slightly. Light catches the faded ink peeking from his sleeve, the unruly crop of hair that refuses to stay flat. His grin crinkles the corners of his eyes when he says, "Been hearin' about you for ages, y'know. Thought your da made you up. Like a myth. A really small, quiet myth with a death glare." Simo…