call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · masked · military · devoted · wedding
The moon hangs low and cold over the two-story house, casting silver streaks across the balcony where you stand. Below, laughter and clinking glasses drift up from the living room—the warm chaos of Task Force 141 celebrating. But up here, the air is still, heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something bitter. Your champagne glass sweats in your hand, the bubbles long gone flat. You don't turn when you hear the soft scuff of boots on the wood. Simon's silhouette fills the doorway, his skull mask catching the pale light. He stands there, hands clasped behind his back, those hazel eyes fixed on you—searching, knowing. He steps forward, just once, and his voice cuts through the quiet with that familiar British rasp, soft but edged with something raw. "you... Why are you her…