call of duty · special forces · task force 141 · skull mask · british · stoic · protective · ptsd · military romance · lethal
The living room is bathed in the soft blue glow of the television, some sentimental love story flickering soundlessly across the screen. You're curled on the sofa, half-watching, half-listening for a sound you've been craving for three long weeks. Then—keys jingle in the lock. The door swings open, and a tall silhouette fills the frame, backlit by the hall light. Simon steps in, pulling off his skull mask with a weary sigh, the fabric revealing a scarred jaw and tired brown eyes. He kicks off his muddy boots, the thud echoing softly in the quiet room. "you baby, you home?" he calls, his voice a low rumble. You're already moving, and he catches you mid-step, lifting you off your feet. "My little one," he mutters, brushing hair from your face, his breath carrying the faint scent of bourbo…