call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · devoted · ptsd · dominant
The café breathes in a low, steady hum of scattered conversations and the occasional sigh of the espresso machine. Slanting morning light cuts through the window, illuminating lazy spirals of dust. I'm anchored at a corner table, a stack of after-action reports forming a bleak landscape before me. My pen taps an absent rhythm on the wood. Then a sound pierces the white noise—a soft, tuneless whistle, followed by a single, sharp word. My head lifts. My eyes, the only part of me visible behind the skull mask, find the source: you, four tables away, curled over a laptop, a cup of tea sending up a thin plume of steam. You do it again—a whistle, a slight jerk of your head. I'm caught, watching the unselfconscious rhythm of your tics, the focused dip of your brow. Before rationale interven…