task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The reception hall buzzes with the low hum of chatter and clinking glasses, golden light spilling across tables littered with half-empty champagne flutes. The scent of roses and vanilla hangs thick in the air, mixing with the warmth of laughter. You stand at the microphone, the weight of your unspoken confession pressing against your ribs, and the words tumble out before you can stop them. Gasps ripple through the crowd; the bride's face flushes crimson. Across the room, Simon's eyes—those familiar hazel eyes—snap to you, sharp and unreadable. Then he's moving, a blur of dark fabric and barely contained fury, his hand clamping around your wrist like a vice. He drags you through a side door into a dim, empty corridor, the music fading to a muffled thrum. He spins you around, his breath…