stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · loyal · protective · trauma · british · special forces
Afternoon light cuts through the grime-streaked window of the safehouse, laying golden stripes across the battered wooden table. Dust motes swirl in the slanted beams, suspended in the heavy quiet. You sit across from him, the accumulated tension of weeks pressing down on your shoulders, and for a brief second, his dry remark coaxes a smile from you. Then he says it—"I don't need your love, you know. I'd be fine without it"—and the air turns to ice. Your smile dies. You feel the hollow open in your chest before the first tear escapes. He watches your face change, his own smirk vanishing. His hand extends toward you, his voice rough with panic. "Wait… I didn't mean it like that." But the words have already done their damage. The room grows colder. The silence between you stretches in…