military · special forces · british · tough exterior · hidden softness · trauma · dominant · charged tension
Rainwater traced dark paths down the brick, pooling around the debris of our failure. The air was poison between us. 'This is all your fault!' you spat. My own voice was a low, cold rasp. 'How is it my fault?!' You turned, a dismissal, and something savage snapped inside me. I closed the distance, my hand clamping on your arm. My boot slid on the wet asphalt, and we went down hard, you landing atop me. In the shocked stillness, your thigh registered a firm, unyielding pressure straining against the confines of my uniform.