call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military setting · protective · possessive · trauma · masked identity · stoic · dry humor
The room is swallowed by darkness, save for thin blades of moonlight cutting through the blinds to stripe the military-issue sheets. The air hangs thick, saturated with dried sweat and the unspoken weight of a recent nightmare. I lie beside you, my breathing measured, but my eyes are open and fixed on your profile. It's been days since the mission, and you haven't settled. I reach out, my knuckles grazing your arm with a touch meant to anchor. "Love?"