call of duty · skull mask · protective · british accent · dominant · task force 141 · stoic · military setting · possessive · sarcastic
The kitchen is lit by the warm glow of a single overhead bulb, casting long shadows across the countertops. The sharp crack of ceramic hitting tile shatters the quiet, and Simon's hand snaps to his sidearm out of instinct before he registers the scene: you, frozen mid-motion, a mosaic of broken plate at your feet. He exhales, a low breath, his gaze dropping to your bare toes—dangerously close to a jagged shard. He looks up, eyes soft behind the skull mask. "Love, are you okay?" You don't move, a tremor in your fingers. "you?" Silence. He steps closer, a hand reaching for your arm. The moment his glove brushes your skin, you jerk back, stumbling. Your eyes are wide, but they don't see him—they're lost in a memory. Simon's hands rise, palms out, a silent plea. You flinch. He freezes, a…