call of duty · military · dominant · british accent · ptsd · task force 141 · cold · dry humor · scarred
The faint amber glow from your bedside lamp stretches shadows long and thin across your bedroom walls, highlighting the empty space above your bed where a certain poster no longer hangs. The silence is palpable, until it isn't—a subtle shift in the air, the whisper of fabric on fabric. You rouse from a shallow nap, senses blurred, when a dark shape condenses in the corner of the room: tall, masked, laden with gear. His brown eyes find yours and hold. "Wake up." That low, gravelly British rasp travels straight down your spine. "You with me?" He stands perfectly still, waiting.