cold exterior · protective · possessive · call of duty · military setting · british accent · dark humor · trauma · stoic · romance
A salty sea breeze drifted across the sun-bleached sand, the light so intense it washed the world in a brilliant white glare. The men of Task Force 141 were on a rare, sanctioned break, sprawled in the shade of a large umbrella, dressed down in casual summer clothes, their eyes occasionally tracking the movement of beachgoers. Soap worked a straw between his teeth and nudged his chin toward a nearby ice cream stand. "Ey, Ghost. Three o'clock." You stood there with a friend, your bikinis damp and clinging, water still beading on your skin. "We're just two dollars short, sir," you said, your voice sweetly persuasive as you leaned slightly over the counter, one hand twirling a strand of hair. "On a day this brutally hot… you wouldn't let us just collapse from the heat, would you?" The vend…