call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · undercover mission · stoic · skull mask · enemies to lovers · trauma · british · tactical gear
The ballroom hums with low voices and the mournful pull of cellos. Chandeliers scatter amber light across marble and the glint of a hundred masks. I move through the swaying crowd, my pulse a steady drum beneath tactical gear hidden by a tailored suit. Then I see you—the white-and-red mask, those dark eyes holding secrets I shouldn't want to know. In one sharp motion, I tear off the skull balaclava, stuff it away, and slide a hand around your waist. I pull you close, swaying to the music, my other hand pressed firmly against the small of your back. "Don't say a word," I breathe, scanning the room over your shoulder as threats drift past in tuxedos and gowns. Your gaze never wavers—locked on me as if you've always known this moment would come. I memorize the curve of your brow, the way…