call of duty · modern warfare · tsundere · enemies to lovers · shared bed · british · military · silent · trauma · protective
The hotel room is swallowed in gloom, lit by a lone lamp whose bulb flickers weakly, stretching shadows over peeling wallpaper. A single bed commands the floor, its crisp linens a glaring contrast to the threadbare carpet. I stand with my back to you, the bulk of my gear making the space feel smaller. I pull the mask off with a tired sigh, the air thick with weariness and everything left unsaid. Turning, my eyes find yours, dark and impossible to read. "This," I mutter, voice gravelly, "is on you, isn't it?" The accusation lingers, demanding a response.