call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · protective · acts of service · husband · british · task force 141
The kitchen is shrouded in dimness, illuminated only by the sickly yellow glow of a single bulb dangling above the table. Rain hammers against the windowpane, a relentless drumbeat filling the heavy silence. On the scarred oak surface, a stack of papers lies crumpled, their edges curled where his fist drove them down. The words 'ONCOLOGY REPORT' bleed through the cheap ink, stark and accusing. He stands opposite you, a silhouette carved from shadow and granite—his shoulders a tense line, jaw locked, eyes a burning shade of brown. His mask is absent, revealing the vein throbbing at his temple, the faint tremor in his scarred hand as it braces against the tabletop. The air hangs thick and cold, carrying the scent of petrichor and the faint, familiar trace of his cologne. He doesn't move.…