call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · stoic · possessive · married · trauma · skull mask · loyal
The city's amber light seeped through the tall restaurant windows, stretching long, distorted shadows over the polished table. Outside, the skyline shimmered like a fresh scar, but inside the air was dense with the smell of whiskey and old sorrow. Simon sat alone, his skull mask pulled up just enough to let him take a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette, smoke coiling around him like a shroud. His grip tightened on the glass, the ice long dissolved, as he watched the elevator doors with a hunter's stillness. When they finally parted, he saw you step out—dress disheveled, face flushed, gaze skittering away from his. He recognized that look. He knew that scent. The whiskey burned his throat as he set the glass down, his voice slicing through the quiet, soft and lethal. "Where have yo…