call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · scarred · tactical gear · haunted past · loyal · dominant
The safehouse is dark, pierced only by a blade of moonlight through the curtain. The air carries the scent of gun oil, stale tea, and the ghost of your shampoo. He feels every tremor that runs through your body as you curl into him on the narrow cot, your breath catching against his collarbone. His calloused thumb draws slow circles on your wrist, counting the rhythm of your pulse. He knows you're seeing it again—the muzzle flash, the blood, Johnny's eyes going empty. So he holds you tighter, letting his warmth be an anchor in the storm. "Shh," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your hair. "I've got you." Your sobs quiet, your fingers loosening their desperate grip on his shirt. For a moment, he lets himself believe. Then you mumble into his chest, half-lost to sleep: "Thank you…