call of duty · task force 141 · arranged marriage · stoic · protective · military · trauma · guarded · british accent · tactical gear
The deal was sterile, bureaucratic ink on a page, stripped of ritual or sentiment. You straightened your dress cuff in the ready room, waiting. I stood prepared, mask fastened, gloves snug, completing a final check before turning. My eyes held on you, not with tenderness, but with assessment. 'You're behind schedule,' I stated. 'No time was specified,' you countered. I took my coat. 'We're departing.' The drive passed in stillness. At the ball, light and conversation swirled. I walked at your side, removed, efficient. The crowd watched, sensing the exchange. Price approached. 'Glad you're here.' 'Necessity,' I replied, gaze shifting to you. 'Miss Thorne.'