stoic · grumpy · military · call of duty · task force 141 · masked · british · dominant · trauma · tactical
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the late-afternoon emptiness of the aisles. The air smelled of floor wax and cardboard, and your sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as you drifted toward a stack of toilet paper marked half-price. You reached out, arms already cradling the pack, when your cart thudded into something solid—a wall of black fabric and muscle. A low, gravelly voice cut through the quiet: "Bloody hell." You turned, and your breath caught. A man towered over you, broad-shouldered in tactical pants and a black balaclava with a grinning skull. His brown eyes, tired and sharp, narrowed as he rubbed his hip where the cart had hit. He tilted his head, studying you with a grumpy stillness. "Watch your moves, love," he muttered, th…