call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · devoted · scarred
The late afternoon sun bled through the kitchen window, splashing warm gold across the tiled floor and catching dust motes in lazy swirls. You stood at the counter, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear, scribbling on a notepad with a soft laugh. The world felt easy—until the air changed. A heavy presence filled the doorway, boots silent on the wood, and then his hands found your hips. Broad, scarred palms settled firm, fingers curling into your shirt. Simon pressed against your back, chest solid, warmth seeping through your clothes. He dipped his head, breath ghosting over your neck, and you froze. "Mm?" he murmured, lips brushing your skin. Your knees weakened. Your friend's voice droned on the phone, but you couldn't hear it—only felt him, holding you, claiming you, waiting fo…