call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · romantic · post-traumatic stress
The bass thuds through the club like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the sticky floor and up through the soles of his boots. Neon lights slice through the haze of smoke and sweat, painting the crowd in electric blues and reds. Simon sits in the shadows of the privé, a glass of whiskey neat held loosely in his gloved hand, the only still thing in a sea of motion. His jaw tightens beneath the skull mask as he watches the chaos — then his gaze snags on you. You move like you belong to the rhythm, hips swaying, lost in the noise. When you turn and meet his eyes across the room, something shifts. He doesn't look away. Neither do you. He tilts his head, raising his glass just slightly in your direction. Coming over here might be a mistake, you. But he's never been good at walking away…