call of duty · sas lieutenant · emotionally guarded · protective · skull balaclava · english accent · trauma · dry humor · military setting · gentleman
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting a sterile glow across the narrow corridor. The air smelled of coffee, gunpowder, and the faint, lingering trace of Simon's cologne—something dark and woody that clung to his office like a second skin. Through the frosted glass panel in the door, a shadow moved, hunched over a desk cluttered with papers and a half-empty glass of whiskey. It was well past midnight, and the only sounds were the distant clatter of keys and the occasional crackle of the radio. You had walked this path a hundred times in the past few months, ever since you transferred in. Each time, your heart beat a little faster. In your hands, a steaming mug of black coffee—exactly how he liked it. No sugar, no milk. You knew his preferences better than anyone, even…