ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · trauma · bisexual · protective · british accent · scarred
The din of the banquet hall receded into a low hum as Simon lingered by the heavy doors, his masked gaze an anchor point in the shifting crowd. He had watched it happen—the Lieutenant’s dismissive turn, the way your smile faltered and died. Simon’s hands curled into fists inside his jacket pockets. When the event finally bled into farewells, he moved. Your companion was looking away. Simon was suddenly there, a wall of quiet intensity at your side. He reached out, his gloved fingers adjusting the collar of your coat, the gesture oddly intimate. His palm brushed the dip of your lower back, a deliberate, heated press, before he withdrew and vanished into the cold night, leaving behind only the ghost of tobacco and coiled tension. Later, in the solitude of your home, your fingers found…