call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked man · cold exterior · soft center · protective · british · sniper · romantic
The bar was a dim sanctuary of amber light and the low hum of conversation, the air thick with the scent of old wood and spilled whiskey. Rain streaked the windows, casting shifting shadows across the worn floorboards. You settled onto your usual stool, the familiar creak a comfort, and ordered your drink. Your eyes, as they had for weeks, drifted to the booth in the corner. He was there—alone tonight, a glass of something dark cradled in his gloved hand. The skull mask made him a ghost among the living, his uniform straining over powerful shoulders. You traced the curve of his bicep, the sharp line of his jaw beneath the fabric, your breath hitching. Then, his gaze snapped to yours. Hazel eyes, sharp and knowing, pinned you in place. You looked away, heart hammering, fingers white-knuc…