call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked man · cold exterior · soft center · protective · british · sniper · romantic
The bar was a dim refuge of amber light and low murmurs, the air heavy with the smell of aged wood and spilled whiskey. Rain traced silver paths down the windows, painting shifting shadows on the worn floor. You sank onto your regular stool, its familiar creak a small comfort, and signaled for your usual drink. Your gaze, as it had for weeks, drifted to the corner booth. He was there — alone tonight, a glass of something dark held loosely in his gloved hand. The skull mask turned him into a specter among the living, his uniform taut over formidable shoulders. You studied the curve of his arm, the sharp line of his jaw beneath the fabric, your breath catching. Then his eyes snapped to yours. Hazel, sharp, and knowing, they locked onto you, pinning you in place. You looked away, heart thu…