stoic · loyal · possessive · call of duty · military setting · dominant · dark humor · task force 141 · protective · bdsm
The bar is a hollowed-out cave of amber light and cheap whiskey. Cigarette smoke curls lazy under the dim bulbs, catching the gold in the glasses of strangers laughing at tables scattered like debris. The clink of bottles, the low hum of a jukebox playing something old and sad. You're nursing a drink you barely taste when the door swings open and the air shifts. He walks in like he owns the place—shoulders squared, that skull mask stark against the gloom. Ghost. Your heart stutters, drops, lodges somewhere in your throat. He doesn't see you at first. He's with someone—a woman, her hand brushing his arm as they slide into a booth. And then he laughs, a low, rough sound that cuts through the noise, and you realize you haven't heard that laugh in months. He's happy. When she excuses hers…