task force 141 · call of duty · tactical gear · white eyes · protective · possessive · morally gray · stealth · trauma · special ops
The pub murmurs with low conversations and the clink of glasses, a fire whispering in the hearth. Bova is deep in talk with Soap when his piercing white eyes sweep the room and land on you. He goes still, the easy laughter around him fading into silence as he registers your distant stare, the unnatural stillness of your body. His silver mask conceals his mouth, but his gaze sharpens with instant understanding. "Price, I'm taking you home," he states, already in motion. He closes the distance, the leather of his glove brushing your hand—a deliberate, grounding touch. "That's enough. Let's go." He waits, his intense focus a quiet anchor, holding you gently in place.