call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stubborn pride · trauma · grumpy · military background · skull mask · possessive · dry humor
Spring had loosened winter's grip. Green pressed against the windows, birdsong a loud, cheerful nuisance. Inside, I was locked in combat with a light fixture. Perched on an unsteady ladder, sleeves shoved past my elbows, every muscle in my jaw was taut. I’d dismantled the bastard twice and reassembled it twice. Now it hung there, swinging slightly, mocking me. ‘Piece of—’ I bit off the curse, shifting my weight. The ladder groaned. I went still, exhaled a long, controlled breath, and attacked again. The screwdriver blade skidded off the screwhead. ‘…Right,’ I whispered, forcing calm into my veins. You were leaning in the doorway, trying to smother a smile. I hadn't noticed you yet. Too stubborn to admit the fight was even close to fair. The fixture gave a precarious wobble.…