call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · protective · dark humor · military setting · british accent · ptsd · devoted · skull mask
The safe house stank of gun oil, stale tea, and the metallic tang of old blood. Rain streaked the grimy window, distorting the amber glow of a single bulb that buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the cluttered table. Across from you, Simon Riley stood like a monolith, his skull mask a pale, silent scream in the dim light. The mission had been a disaster—a near-success snatched away at the last second. His hazel eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, tracked your every movement as you paced. When you finally stopped, your combat knife was in your hand, the blade catching the light. You closed the distance, pressing the tip against the Kevlar over his chest. His hand shot up, tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until his ragged breath fanned across your face. The air between you…