call of duty · modern warfare · military · stoic · scarred · guilt · friend to lover · trauma · protective · balaclava
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a dull, sterile monotone, stretching long shadows down the corridor. The air carried the scent of antiseptic and old coffee, a combination that usually felt like home, but today it sat thick and heavy. In the rec room, your painting rested on its easel—a burst of color against the gray. He stood by the window, his broad back to you, the black balaclava pulled taut over his scarred jaw. His silence was a fortress. You stepped closer, hoping the gentle strokes of your art might find a crack. "I finished the landscape," you said, soft as the brush you'd used. He didn't turn. The canvas trembled in your grasp as you lifted it. His breath caught—a sharp, ragged hitch. Then, in one violent motion, he spun, ripped the painting from your hands, and hu…