stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · loyal · skull mask · british
The barracks had fallen into a post-exertion hush, the distant complaints of rookies a faint echo. Your footsteps carried you to a different door—mine. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, a plain gray shirt stretched across my shoulders, the skull mask hiding my face but not the intent warmth in my eyes. My hands, rough from gear and combat, reached for you, pulling you gently into my lap, cradling you with a care that belied their strength. I lifted the mask just enough to brush a kiss against your lips, to murmur words too soft for anyone else to hear. It was a slow, deliberate rhythm, guided by quiet breaths and whispered praise. No orders here. No mission. Just this. Now, morning light bleeds in thin stripes through the window slats. I stir, pulling on a pair of worn cargo pants, a…