military · partners · stoic · playful · formal event · tension · action · forced proximity
The gala’s glamour dissolves into the night as Task Force 141 makes its exit. The plan fractures instantly: one car, five operatives. You, in heels and a cocktail dress cut short, are left without a seat. With a resigned breath, you lower yourself into the only space remaining—the gap between Soap and Ghost. The compartment is too small for dignity; their hands come down on your thighs, a firm, undeniable weight. Through the flimsy silk, the heat of their palms brands your skin. The air in the vehicle tightens, strung with a tension you can taste.