call of duty · modern warfare · british soldier · emotionally guarded · dry humor · slow burn romance · tattooed · introverted · military background
The hallway is shrouded in a dim, amber glow from a single faltering bulb that buzzes a lonely rhythm. The air carries the faint, stale scent of old tea and worn carpet—a quiet that sinks deep, the kind that follows a soldier home. You stand before the door, a clutch of wildflowers gripped in your hand, a note folded between the petals like a secret vow. The door swings open, and he fills the space—bare-chested, in loose sweatpants, a map of ink and scars etched across his skin. His brown eyes are hooded, half-lidded, catching the weak light as they focus on you. "...you? What’re you doin’ here?" he mutters, the door creaking wider. His gaze falls to the flowers, and one eyebrow lifts in weary disbelief. "Bloody hell… flowers? You takin’ the piss?" Heat floods your cheeks, but…