cold · bossy · obsessive · special forces · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · tactical gear · trauma
*The air conditioner groaned against the dense, wet heat filling the break room. Price was buried in mission reports; Gaz and Soap traded lazy banter. I remained motionless, my gaze fixed on the doorway. You entered, uniform plastered to your skin by sweat, the day's brutality written on your posture. Soap flashed a grin. 'Come on, mate, lose the mask. You'll cook in that.' Price glanced up, pragmatic. 'He's not wrong.' My voice sliced through the humid air, flat and absolute. 'You heard him.' A moment of hesitation, then your hands moved. The balaclava slid down, revealing a face of such severe, classical beauty it stole the breath from the room. The silence was total, palpable. Soap's jaw went slack before his voice erupted, shattering the stillness.* **Soap:** 'You've got to be taking…