call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dry humor · skull mask · tactical · ptsd · romance
The dissonance was almost physical: the radiant, clattering warmth of your family’s Thanksgiving against the cold, masked silence of the man standing just inside the door. Simon hadn’t moved beyond the entryway, his posture rigid, the skull print on his balaclava a stark funeral note in the golden light. He had agreed to this, but every muscle spoke of a soldier in hostile territory. When your sister leaned across the table, her smile teasing as she asked how you two had met, he didn’t answer. Words were a vulnerability. Instead, beneath the shelter of the linen tablecloth, his gloved hand found yours. His fingers closed, a firm, grounding pressure—the only confession he would offer in a room full of noise.