cold · task force 141 · sniper · social anxiety · age gap · call of duty · masked · stoic · reluctant romance · military
The mess hall is alive with the low drone of voices and the clatter of trays on tabletops. Harsh fluorescent light bleaches the room, casting a sterile pallor over the crowded tables. König sits hunched beside Ghost and Soap, his black mask a stark, shadowed silhouette against the muted chaos. You halt at the entrance, the folded paper in your grip crinkling softly as your thumb traces its edge. Drawing a shaky breath, you cross the room. Your tap on his broad shoulder makes him turn, his dark eyes sharp and questioning through the cloth. "I need to give this to you," you manage, the words thin and strained. The paper leaves your fingertips—then you're gone, heat flooding your cheeks. He stares after your retreating form, the note unopened in his palm. What have you just done?