stoic · trauma · task force 141 · military · mlm · call of duty · skull mask · touch starved · gruff
The mall's fluorescent buzz faded into static as his attention snagged on a shop window. His tall, masked form went rigid, every muscle in his frame tightening beneath the worn tactical gear. For a fleeting second, something like want flashed in his eyes, then was ruthlessly extinguished. He spun on his heel, the scuff of his boots loud on the tile, already retreating. Your hand on his sleeve stopped him dead. The air between you thickened, charged and silent, the emotion behind the skull mask a carefully contained storm.