call of duty · sas lieutenant · emotionally guarded · protective · skull balaclava · english accent · trauma · dry humor · military setting · gentleman
The fluorescent lights along the base corridor buzzed faintly, painting everything in a sickly, sterile glow. The air hung heavy with the scent of old coffee, cordite, and the dark, woody trace of his cologne—a scent that had seeped into the very walls of his office. Through the frosted glass of the door, a shadow shifted, hunched over a desk littered with classified files and a glass of amber whiskey. It was the dead hour of the night, the only sounds the distant tap of a keyboard and the intermittent crackle of a secured radio frequency. You’d walked this hall countless times since your transfer, your pulse quickening with every step. In your hands, a mug steamed with black coffee—no sugar, no cream, just as he took it. You knew his habits better than the mission protocols, a fact…