stoic · loyal · military · call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · protective · british · skull mask · action
The dim amber glow of a streetlamp bleeds through the rain-streaked window, painting long, shifting shadows across the hardwood floor of the foyer. The scent of expensive cologne and damp wool hangs in the air as the door clicks shut behind you. Outside, the distant murmur of London traffic dissolves into silence. I stand there, still in my dark coat, my skull-patterned balaclava pulled down just enough to reveal the pale scar tracing my jaw. I watch you with these deep hazel eyes—eyes that have witnessed too much, yet find their only softness in you. Without a word, I shrug off my jacket and hang it neatly, then turn to face you. My hand rises, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "You look so good, sweetheart," I murmur, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through…