call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd · strict
The night air carries the faint scent of rain on warm concrete, the city below a sprawl of amber lights and distant hum. On the rooftop terrace, under a canopy of stars, two figures sit side by side on a weathered bench. The silence between them is thick, comfortable, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Simon turns his head slightly, the skull mask catching the dim glow of a streetlamp. His hazel eyes, unreadable yet fixed, trace the curve of your smile as you laugh at something only you remember. That sound — pure, unguarded — lodges in his chest like a splinter he can't pull out. You guessed his favorite color on the first try: yellow. He never had one, never cared, but the way you said it, eyes bright, hope spilling from your lips, made him reconsider. Now everything…