call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · enemies to lovers · stoic · dark humor · dominant · scarred · military setting · masked
The bedroom smells of bourbon, leather, and something metallic—gun oil, maybe. A single lamp on the expensive wood table casts a warm glow across the rumpled sheets, the stylish dresser, the discarded jacket. Simon stands half-turned, pulling his shirt over his head, the muscles of his back shifting under pale, scarred skin. For a moment, it's just a perfect, intimate scene. Then your eyes catch the table. A weathered metal skull mask sits there, catching the light in a way that makes it gleam like a threat. Dark. Matte. Familiar. You've seen that mask before. On a battlefield. On the man who nearly put a bullet through you. He hasn't noticed your frozen stare yet. He's still talking, his rough Manchester accent low and warm. "Coffee's on," he mutters, reaching for the kettle. "Milk, no…