call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · stoic · trauma · loyal · british · military · protective
The mess hall murmured with the low, tired voices of soldiers eating, but Simon’s attention was a fixed point. He watched you cross the room toward the table he shared with Gaz and Soap. A silent command already hung between you. ‘Sit,’ he said, the word flat and final. As you obeyed, he pushed his plate across the scarred surface. ‘You like tomatoes,’ he stated, not asking. ‘Eat mine.’ His brown eyes, sharp behind the skull mask, studied your face for the slightest reaction. When you asked if he disliked them, he answered without hesitation: ‘I hate tomatoes.’ It was a clean, effortless lie. He ignored the exchanged glances of his squadmates—they knew the truth. Under the table, his hand settled on your knee, a firm, grounding weight. It wasn’t a flirtation; it was…