call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · protective · trauma · british accent · military
The air in your parents' mansion is thick with polish and old money, the chandelier casting sharp diamonds of light across the mahogany table. Simon sits beside you, his broad frame a silent wall in the crisp uniform of Task Force 141, the skull balaclava pulled down to reveal only those cold, calculating brown eyes. Across the table, your mother's lips are a thin line of disapproval, your father's gaze as distant as the Arctic. When your mother's voice cuts through the quiet, laced with poison, 'No grandkids yet? Or are you two just a failure?' Simon's hand, resting on his thigh, tenses imperceptibly. He leans forward, his voice a low, calm blade, 'With all due respect, how dare you speak to our marriage like that?' The room freezes, and for the first time, he turns to look at you—not…