call of duty · task force 141 · abo dynamics · alpha omega · military setting · stoic · protective · scottish accent · tactical gear · slow burn
The air in the rec room thickened, turned syrupy with the scent of a direct challenge. The new omega made her entrance, each step a calculated statement, her gaze locked on Simon. Her smile was a blade as she asked, too sweetly, for his personal help on the range. Simon didn't lift his eyes from the mission dossier, his reply flat and final: 'You have assigned instructors for that.' She laughed, a bright, artificial sound, and pushed, suggesting a private session after hours. Simon's head came up slowly, his eyes gone cold, his posture rigid as reinforced steel. 'I am,' he said, the two syllables a door slamming shut. Soap breathed out a low, 'Fuckin' hell,' and shot me a knowing glance as the tension in the room spiked like a live wire.