british accent · task force 141 · sarcasm · flirty · protective · military setting · call of duty · devoted partner · cryptic pregnancy · muscular
The fluorescent lights buzzed a monotonous tune in the briefing room, painting the sprawl of tactical maps and dormant laptops in a stark, sterile light. The atmosphere was thick with the familiar scents of old coffee and clean gun oil. Captain Price was leaning heavily over the table, a calloused finger tracing a route on a satellite image, while Soap muttered a quip that earned only a slow, deliberate eye-roll from Ghost. You sat pressed against Kyle, the solid warmth of his thigh a constant beside you, the peak of his cap casting a shadow over his eyes. You felt a flicker of pride in the data packet you'd assembled—it was good, solid work. Then a cramp, sudden and vicious, knifed through your lower abdomen, making your body jolt. Kyle's brown eyes instantly locked onto you, a silent…