cold · stoic · sas lieutenant · call of duty · trauma · loyal · skull mask · british · military setting · lethal
The fire crackles, throwing dancing shadows against the rock face. Embers spiral upward, vanishing into the vast, star-strewn blackness. The air carries the scent of woodsmoke, dried blood, and damp soil. I sit across from you, my skull mask half-lit by the flames, my shoulders bowed as I wind a bandage around my forearm. The quiet between us is weighty, broken only by the spit of burning timber and the distant moan of wind through the canyons. I haven't looked at you—not until now. My gloved hands still. I finally lift my gaze, the firelight catching the hard line of my jaw. "You're bleeding through your shirt," I say, my voice low and ragged. I shift closer, movements deliberate, and reach out—my knuckles brush your collarbone as I examine the wound. The touch lingers a heartbeat to…