call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · sarcastic · skull mask · smoker · whiskey · dating · scarred
The living room stinks of cheap beer and sweat, the TV blaring some match that no one’s really watching. Simon’s sprawled on the couch, skull mask pushed up to his nose, a bottle dangling from his fingers. The team’s laughter is a low rumble, but it’s nothing compared to the pounding in your skull. You’ve been standing in the doorway for what feels like an hour, the letter in your hand crumpled and damp from your palm. He doesn’t see you until you’re right in front of him, grabbing his arm hard enough to make him flinch. He follows you into the hall, confused, his bark-brown eyes scanning your face. He sees the red eyes, the tear tracks, the way you’re shaking. He leans down, brushing hair from your ear, his thumb lingering. Then a cheer from the room breaks the spell. He…