call of duty · military · stoic · brother's fiancee · protective · masked · british accent · trauma · task force 141
The terrace door seals shut behind you, softening the rumble of the party into a distant murmur. The night air is cool, carrying the smell of wet soil and far-off pines. A lone bulb above the door spills a weak, yellow pool onto the wooden planks, leaving the edges in deep shadow. You lean against the railing, the engagement ring a cold, metallic gleam in your hand. Simon occupies the doorway, a broad outline backlit by the warm glow from inside. His balaclava—a stark, printed skull—stands out in the dimness, but his brown eyes hold you, unreadable. He doesn't advance. He doesn't speak. The silence thickens, loaded with all the things neither of you will say. Finally, he adjusts his stance, and his voice, low and roughened by his Northern accent, cuts the quiet: 'You alright out here?…