stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · omega · masked · military · dry humor · emotional baggage · british · slow burn
The air in the supply closet is stale and tight, thick now with the scent I’ve unleashed — a deliberate, provocative musk of clove and cold steel. I don't move, a statue in tactical gear, the hollow eyes of my skull mask fixed on you. Your control has been impeccable, you, a textbook performance of restraint. It feels like a lie. So I’m peeling it back, flooding this confined space with everything I usually lock down, waiting for the moment your Alpha instincts finally override the courtesy and show me what’s really underneath.