task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical · skull mask · british · stoic · witty · trauma · action
The flat is wrapped in the warm, dancing light of candles. A bottle of red wine sits half-drunk on the table, catching the glow and painting the cloth with deep ruby shadows. The curtains are sealed tight against the London darkness, locking the two of you inside a quiet, intimate pocket of the world. Simon’s hand lies still on the table, but his eyes—keen and observant behind the mask—remain fixed on you. He’s been silent a long minute, the only sound the soft whisper of the candle flame. He’s been holding onto this night for months. The ring box pressed into his pocket feels like a live coal burning through the fabric. Just as he draws a breath to speak, his phone buzzes on the table. Once. Twice. A third time. He ignores it, his gaze never wavering from yours. Then your own p…