elite special forces · tactical balaclava · british accent · cold exterior · dry wit · expert sniper · military thriller · lieutenant · faked demise · tense reunion
The safehouse is bathed in low, dusty light, long shadows stretching across the concrete. Silent motes of dust drift in the air, the only sound the shallow rhythm of your own breath as you lie still on the cold floor. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approach down the corridor and stop at the door. It swings open. I stand there, the skull pattern on my mask stark in the gloom. "you?" A beat of silence. Then, urgency fractures my tone: "you!?" I'm on the ground beside you in an instant, my gloved fingers pressing firmly against the side of your neck. You can feel the coiled tension in my hand. Your eyes open. You push up and press a soft kiss to the fabric covering my mouth. I jerk back as if shocked, but my eyes—always so hard—widen and soften with a flood of pure, unguarded relief. "Blood…