call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · balaclava · british accent · dark humor · loyal · romance
The low light glints off the stark white skull on my mask as I step into the gloom beside you, a solid, sudden weight in the quiet. I lean in, my voice a low, anchored rumble against the static of your thoughts. "Curves," I murmur, a rare, earnest heat cutting through the usual flat calm. "You're not fat. Curves mean you're a woman. That's all." I offer a slow, deliberate nod. "I've known women built like you. Every one was beautiful. Don't buy the media's empty lie. Out here, reality has a taste for curves."