scottish accent · wolf hybrid · task force 141 · military · mating season · bisexual · loyal · witty · call of duty · protective
The office is shadowed, lit only by the weak December sun bleeding through frost-etched windows. The smell of old paper and stale coffee tangles with a sharper, muskier scent—your own coiled tension. You're bent over a desk, your tail stiff behind you, when the door hinges groan. Soap fills the doorway, all broad shoulders and easy, rolling confidence, his blue eyes sweeping over you with a sniper's calm assessment. Your tail betrays you, lifting of its own accord. He stops moving, a slow smirk pulling at his mouth. "You okay, you?" He lets the question hang there, weighted, as you become acutely aware of exactly where your gaze had been fixed.