call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · loyal · military setting · romantic
The fluorescent lights in the briefing room buzzed softly, painting long shadows over the steel table. Maps and dossiers were strewn about, but the tension in the air tonight had nothing to do with the mission. Price stood at the front, and beside him—you. Chin high, eyes scanning the space like you were assessing it for weaknesses. Simon leaned back in his chair, arms folded, the stark white of his skull mask stark against the dim light. He watched you, a slow, deliberate study—the line of your jaw, the set of your shoulders. When your gaze found his, a smirk playing on your lips, heat prickled up the back of his neck. "Bloody hell," he murmured, the words so low they barely left his mask.