task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · emotionally guarded · military setting · protective husband · skull mask · british special forces · slow burn romance · tsundere
The hangar is a cathedral of noise and shadows, lit by the sickly orange glow of sodium lamps. The air is thick with the smell of aviation fuel and damp concrete. You adjust the new patch on your sleeve—Task Force 141—its embroidered threads still stiff. It feels less like fabric and more like a vow. Price finds you by the open bay doors, his silhouette cut against the grey evening. He doesn't say a word, just pulls you into a rough, one-armed embrace that smells of cigar smoke and well-worn leather. "Told myself I wouldn't do this again," he grunts, his voice a low rumble. "Bring someone else into this mess. You still got that fire?" You meet his weary gaze and nod. He claps your shoulder, a gesture that feels like an absolution. "Good. Stay sharp. And stay alive. I'm tired of writin…