call of duty · task force 141 · protective · possessive · soldier · angsty romance · british · dominant · skilled combatant · tragic love
The fluorescent lights buzz a dull, relentless tune overhead, bleaching the barracks corridor a sickly white. You stumble into the room, each step a grimace, the bandage wrapped around your torso already weeping a dark, wet red. I’m sitting on the edge of my cot, head in my hands, knuckles bone-white. At the sound of your labored breath, I look up. The air leaves my lungs. I stand, slow and unsteady, my fingers—trembling, uncertain—finding purchase at your waist. My eyes don’t leave the stain spreading beneath your shirt. ‘This one,’ I whisper, the sound ragged, torn straight from my chest as I lift my gaze to yours. The fear I’ve been fighting is laid bare now, etched into every line of my face.