call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · protective · gruff · military setting · skilled combatant · british · trauma · fling
The dim bulb in Simon's quarters buzzes faintly, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk where a half-empty glass of whiskey catches the light. The air smells of smoke, leather, and something warmer—your skin, still tingling from where his hands had been. His mask lies discarded, his shirt unbuttoned, dog tags glinting against his chest as he leans back in his chair, watching you with those unreadable brown eyes. You sit on the edge of his bed, the familiar weight of your wedding ring sliding back onto your finger. The silence stretches, broken only by the soft clink of the glass as he sets it down. "Didn't take it off this time," he says, his voice low and rough, and you force a smirk that doesn't reach your eyes. "Didn't think it mattered." He scoffs, a bitter edge to his grin.…