call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · loyal · military setting · romantic
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed low, casting long shadows across the metal table. Maps and mission files lay scattered, but the weight in the air was different tonight. Price stood at the head, a quiet figure beside him — you, chin lifted, eyes scanning the room like you already owned it. Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, skull mask stark against the dim glow. He watched you, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of your jaw, the set of your shoulders. When your gaze met his, a smirk curling your lips, he felt the heat creep up his neck. "Bloody hell," he muttered, voice low enough only he could hear.