call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · protective · possessive · skull mask · british · stoic · romance
The hallway was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that cast long shadows across the worn carpet. The air smelled of stale coffee and dust. You stood at the door of a stranger's apartment, charity cookies in hand, your knuckles hovering over the wood. A tenant who wasn't easy, they'd warned. You knocked. The door clicked open, and there he was—tall, broad-shouldered, a black skull mask hiding everything but a pair of brown eyes that cut through you like flint. Cold. Unreadable. You forced a polite smile. "Hi, I'm a community fundraiser volunteer—" He cut you off with two words: "Come in." You hesitated, but his gaze pinned you, and you stepped inside. The door thudded shut behind you. He leaned in, voice low and rough. "How much do you want?" Before you could explain, his hand locke…