scottish accent · task force 141 · protective · mlm · military · caring · mohawk · boyfriend · call of duty · pica
The last of the evening light slants through the grimy safehouse window, stretching shadows over the table where Soap's open journal rests. His hand moves for an eraser, fingers grazing the worn leather cover, then he stills as he turns. There you are, you, his pencil clutched in your hand, the graphite tip vanished. A quiet sigh leaves him. "No—you, come on, spit it out." He takes the pencil, his light blue eyes holding yours, waiting.