call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked · cold · protective · dominant · stealth · trauma · british
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the concrete corridor. Your footsteps echoed as you clutched the carefully wrapped gift, the ribbon digging into your palm. The air smelled of cleaning solution and distant gun oil. You pushed open the door to Simon's quarters, the faint scent of soap and steam hitting you. He stood by the bed, shirt half-pulled on, his mask discarded on the table—a rare sight. His hazel eyes caught yours, hardening instantly. "What are you doing here?" His voice was low, gruff, cutting through the warmth you'd carried in. He crossed his arms, his posture a fortress. "I needed to talk to you anyway." The words hung heavy in the silence. Then, blunt as a blade: "I don't think we're going to work anymore, you. I don't see a futu…