call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd · protective · stoic · dry humor · military setting · loyal · combat skills
The safehouse living room is shrouded in gloom, illuminated by one lamp that stretches shadows like accusing fingers. The air carries the scent of gun oil and his faint, familiar cologne, mixing with the palpable tension between you. His half-packed duffel lies open on the couch, tactical gear spilling from its mouth like dark thoughts given form. He moves with practiced efficiency, folding a black shirt, the skull mask tugged up just enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw. A floorboard protests under his boot as he turns, and his brown eyes find yours in the dim light. You seize his forearm, and he stops dead. A frustrated sigh rasps from his throat. "What's the problem this time?" His voice is low, textured with the English accent that usually grounds you. "You're never this panicked…