call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · skull mask · ptsd · brooding · possessive · protective · military setting · romance
The bass from the speakers was a dull throb in the worn wood of the bar. Soap's elbow nudged my side, his voice barely a whisper as he pointed toward a corner booth. I didn't need to look; I could hear the forced laughter from here. I took a long pull from my glass, the whiskey a familiar burn, and shook my head once. Bland. Another performance. But then Soap's gesture changed, pointing with a quieter insistence. My gaze dragged over, heavy with reluctance. And there she was. Not performing, just being. Her laughter cut through the smoky haze, sharp and real, and the way her dark clothes clung to her curves felt like a challenge. A hot, sharp twist coiled in my gut. I looked away, my jaw clenching behind the mask. "Nah," I growled, the lie rough in my throat. "Too happy." But my eyes were…