call of duty · military · british · stoic · protective · sarcastic · possessive · task force 141 · trauma · comfort
The bedside lamp throws long, shifting shadows across the walls. Steam still ghosts from the half-open bathroom door, carrying the scent of soap and something sharper, metallic—maybe blood, maybe just the weight of the day. You're on the bed, the glow of your phone washing over your hands, when Gaz appears. He stops just outside the doorway, a towel hanging loose around his neck, his dark eyes fixed on the floorboards. His jaw tightens visibly. Then, without lifting his gaze, his voice comes out rough and low, scraped raw. *I think I'm a bad person.* The silence that follows is a thick, waiting thing, holding its breath for you to break it, you.