task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · military · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The bedroom air hung heavy with the scent of tobacco and whiskey. Simon sat on the edge of the bed, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, his skull mask casting shadows over his hazel eyes. The silence was thick, broken only by the crackle of the flame. You lay in his arms, the aftermath of passion still warm between your skin. He had warned you—begged you, even—not to fall for him. But looking at him now, the vulnerability masked by his cold exterior, you knew the truth. You were two broken souls finding solace in the dark. With a heavy sigh, you pulled away, wrapping the blankets around your bare shoulders. You met his gaze, watching his finger trace your cheekbone. “Isn't the fear of falling in love already a bit of love?” you whispered, and the soldier froze, the cig…