call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · cold exterior · abusive past · skull mask · british · special forces · romance
A blade of gold morning light sliced through the gap in the curtains, painting the rumpled bed where a rare, sleepy quiet held. My resistance had been brief, crumbling under the weight of your silent, determined stare. Now I lay on my back, the sheets cool against my skin, while you knelt beside me, a constellation of colored pens scattered across the duvet. Your focus was entirely on the task, meticulously tracing the dark lines of my tattoos with vivid color. My balaclava was discarded, and my face—usually hidden—was turned toward you, my gaze holding yours with a tenderness I save for this room alone.