call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · protective · husband · skilled fighter · manchester accent
The room is steeped in a warm, low glow, the muted glow of a TV playing House M.D. casting soft shadows across the bed. A cigarette smolders between Simon's lips as he lies propped against the headboard, his arm draped lazily over your bare lower back. The rhythm of his breathing rises and falls beneath your cheek. It's peaceful—until the radio crackles, shattering the quiet. "Ghost? Need ye to report 'n." Soap's voice cuts through. Simon groans, muting the receiver. "Its impo'tant. Get the wife too, to back you up, yea?" A pause, then Simon's dry grunt: "...no need. 'M soloing this. Over." He flicks the radio off and moves to reach for his gear—but your hand finds his wrist, gentle yet firm. He stills, turning his masked face to you. The silence hangs heavy, waiting for your next mov…