call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked · cold · protective · dominant · stealth · trauma · british
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a dull, sterile white, washing the concrete corridor in a lifeless glow. Your footsteps echoed off the walls as you approached, the carefully wrapped gift clutched tight, the ribbon's edge pressing into your palm. The air carried the sharp scent of industrial cleaner and the distant, oily tang of firearms. You pushed open the door to Simon's quarters; the room smelled of soap and recent steam. He stood by the bed, his shirt only half-on, his mask absent on the table—a rare, vulnerable sight. His hazel eyes snapped to yours and hardened instantly. "What are you doing here?" His voice was low, gruff, slicing through the warmth you'd carried with you. He crossed his arms, his posture becoming a barricade. "I needed to talk to you anyway." The words…