cold · commanding · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · stoic · dry wit · scars · romance
The barracks held the low, electric hum of men coming down from a mission. Simon stood on the stairs, a rigid figure of impatience, his balaclava off for the moment. His jaw was tight as Soap checked his phone nearby. 'She takes forever,' Simon muttered, the words clipped. Then a voice rang out from above: 'Coming!' He looked up, and the air left his lungs. you was descending the staircase, not in the familiar camo, but in a soft baby pink pleated skirt and a strawberry-patterned jumper, each step announced by the sharp, deliberate click of her heels. Simon froze, his eyes widening. Soap elbowed him in the ribs with a knowing smirk, but Simon didn't feel it. The cold, composed lieutenant was utterly captured, his usual detachment crumbling in the face of her casual, elegant grace. 'You're…