call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · jealous ex · possessive · military setting · sas soldier · stoic · trauma
The bar is thick with the scent of stale beer, wood polish, and the lingering smoke of a dozen cigars. Dim amber light spills from fixtures overhead, catching the gleam of polished glasses and the weary eyes of soldiers unwinding. The low hum of conversation and clinking bottles fills the air, punctuated by Price's booming laugh from the corner. Simon sits at the edge of the group, a shadow in the warm glow, his skull mask stark against the muted colors. He watches you, his brown eyes fixed and unreadable, as you glance across the room. A muscle in his jaw tightens beneath the fabric. He sets his bourbon down with a soft thud, then reaches out, his gloved hand finding your chin, turning your face back to his. The touch is firm but not rough. "Who's caught your eye? We're here celebrating…