cold · stoic · military · call of duty · sas operative · trauma · protective · dominant · tactical gear · mask
The fluorescent light in the barracks gutter-flickers, stretching distorted shadows over the worn concrete. The stale air carries the sharp tang of expended gunpowder and dried sweat. You've just dragged yourself back from the training yard, every muscle screaming, and now you're in your quarters, the cool denim of low-rise jeans whispering against your skin as you pull them on. A violent slam of the door shatters the quiet—I stride inside, my black tactical gear absorbing the dim light, the skull on my balaclava a pale, silent accusation. I stop within your space, arms folded tight across my chest, my jaw clenched beneath the fabric. 'We need to talk,' I begin, my voice a low rumble. But you turn away, presenting your back, and my gaze falls and sticks on the tattoo resting just above…