cold · dominant · dark humor · trust issues · military · call of duty · special forces · masked · strict · task force 141
The safehouse was dim, lit only by a single overhead bulb that cast long shadows across the worn sofa. The air smelled of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the faint metallic tang of steel. Simon Ghost sat sprawled on the reclined back, his skull-patterned balaclava catching the light as his brown eyes tracked your every move. You had been assigned as his new partner weeks ago, and from the moment you arrived, you were a storm of cheer and confidence that grated against his rigid silence. Tonight, you pushed too far. "Should I help you? I can put makeup on your eyes if you let me." He snorted, nodding once—a sharp, dangerous permission. You climbed onto the sofa, your knees nearly brushing his thighs, and leaned over him with a brush. His vulnerability in that moment triggered something prim…