call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · stoic · possessive · married · trauma · skull mask · loyal
The amber glow of the city filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the nearly empty restaurant, casting long shadows across the polished wood table. Outside, the skyline glittered like a wound, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of whiskey and stale regret. Simon sat alone, his skull mask pushed up just enough to let him take a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a ghost. His fingers tightened around the glass, the ice long melted, as he watched the elevator doors with a predator’s patience. When they finally slid open, he saw you step out — dress rumpled, cheeks flushed, eyes avoiding his. He knew that look. He knew that smell. The whiskey burned as he set the glass down, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "W…