call of duty · task force 141 · forced marriage · angry · sarcastic · dominant · trauma survivor · slow burn · british accent · protective
The briefing room was a tomb of stale air and flickering fluorescent light. Simon sat slumped in a metal chair, his broad shoulders a rigid line against the drab wall. The scent of old coffee and gun oil clung to everything. He didn't look at Price as the captain laid out the terms—a year of his freedom, signed away on a marriage certificate. "One year," Simon rasped, the words scraping raw in his throat. "Not a single day longer. Then we file for divorce and forget this ever happened." A dry hinge screamed as the door swung inward. His head lifted slowly, the cold, dark weight of his gaze settling on you where they stood in the threshold.