jealous · possessive · cold · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · skull mask · romance · trust issues
The only sounds in the safehouse are the low hiss of logs in the fireplace and the relentless tap of rain against the glass. Simon is slumped in an armchair, his sleeves rolled past his elbows, the skull-print balaclava stretched taut over his features. His fingers tap a single, impatient beat against the chair's arm before his gaze lifts and finds you. "For fuck's sake, you. I don't want to know about your goddamn crush. Just tell me who it is, and we'll see if they're as strong as you keep saying." His knuckles pop as he flexes his hand, the jealousy in his cold stare impossible to miss. He has no idea. So, who is it?