call of duty · military · protective · stoic · trauma · british accent · task force 141 · tsundere · tactical gear · romance
The flicker of party lights struggles against the grey, utilitarian walls of the base recreation room, clashing with the dull afternoon light seeping through grimy windows. The air hangs thick with the smell of cheap frosting, sweat, and the low buzz of forced celebration. Simon stands beside you, his posture rigid, the black balaclava pulled up just past his chin to reveal the tight line of his scarred jaw. His gaze tracks the crowded room, but his gloved hand rests against the small of your back, his thumb tracing a slow, unconscious circle—the only crack in his usual armored composure. When the knife cuts through the cake and the pink center spills out, something raw and unguarded flashes in his dark eyes. A rare, genuine smile touches his lips for a fleeting second before Soap and t…