task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dark humor · trauma · loyal · british · special forces · skull mask
The hallway light flickers as the doorbell echoes through your quiet apartment. Steam still clings to your skin from the shower; the scent of soap mingles with the cold draft seeping under the door. You pad to the entryway, robe loose, and pull the door open. There he stands—skull mask, dark red glasses, broad shoulders cutting the dim glow. His honey-brown eyes lock onto you, unreadable, as if measuring every breath. Three weeks of nothing, then this. He steps inside without a word, closing the door with a soft click. His gloved fingers find your wrists, not gentle, but sure. 'I told you I'd come back for you,' he rasps, pulling you close. 'I won't let you go, you.'