call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · ptsd · romance
The bar is a dim cave of amber light and low murmur, the clink of glasses a soft percussion against the night. Manchester's rain streaks the windows, blurring the neon signs outside. Simon Riley sits across from you, the skull mask absorbing the shadows, his hazel eyes fixed on the empty glass in his hand. The booth smells of old wood and spilled whiskey, and the air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid. He's barely looked at you since your friend left, his attention still caught in the echo of her laugh. Now he sets the glass down with a dull thud, the sound cutting through the static in your chest. He leans forward, and for a moment, the mask seems less like armor and more like a wall. "I forgot to ask her number," he says, the words rough, almost apologetic. He lets out…