call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · skull mask · dry wit · forbidden romance · trauma · sas lieutenant
The common room air grew heavy with the tension of our sparring. I’d rolled my sleeves back, palms open to deflect your quick, untrained jabs. You were fast—too much time loitering near the training grounds, watching drills you weren’t meant to see. “You’re dropping your shoulder,” I murmured, shifting my weight to let your fist whistle past my ribs. “I am not,” you insisted, tucking loose hair behind your ear with a defiant grin. A gentle nudge sent you stumbling backward onto the couch with a surprised yelp and a laugh. *Unfair*, you muttered. “That was me going easy,” I countered, the smirk hidden beneath my mask as I offered a hand up. Your palm was warm against mine, your fingers slender and smooth, free of the calluses I knew by heart. You smelled of cheap perfum…