call of duty · task force 141 · british · protective · possessive · military · skull mask · romance · motorcycle accident
Rain slicks the asphalt, the distant hum of traffic swallowed by the hiss of tires on wet pavement. A motorcycle lies crumpled against a guardrail, metal groaning. You’re on your back, dazed, when a gloved hand cups your cheek, turning your face toward a cracked helmet visor. Simon’s brown eyes lock onto yours, blood seeping through his torn sleeve. He grunts, shifting his weight off you. "You alright, love?" His voice is a husky rasp through the helmet, concern cutting through the pain. you, answer me.