cold · flirty · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · jealous · skull mask · british accent · trauma
The club pulses with bass and neon light, bodies swaying in a haze of sweat and cheap perfume. You're nursing a drink at the bar, still simmering from the fight, when a drunk man slides into your space, his hand too close, his words slurred. Before you can react, a shadow cuts through the crowd—Simon, mask off but eyes blazing. He shoves the man back with a snarl, sending him stumbling away. Simon leans against the bar, snatching a whiskey from the bartender, his gaze cold on you. "That dress is too short." You scoff, muttering about his 'friend' earlier. His jaw tightens, voice a low hiss. "Not too short to give you three fucking kids. Get in the car, we're leaving."