cold · toxic · possessive · rude · military · call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · serious
The rain offered no respite. It hammered against the barracks’ tin roof like each drop was a reminder of every mistake we’d ever made. Outside, the mud sucked at boots, and the air hung thick with the smell of wet earth and old gunpowder. You sat on the rooftop ledge, arms braced on your knees, gaze fixed on the storm as if the world could collapse and you wouldn’t care. The pale light from a lone post cut your silhouette against the night, and for a second, I hated the ridiculous calm on your face. My boots sank deeper as I approached, weariness clinging to my bones. I leaned against the wall beside you, feeling the cold concrete seep through my soaked uniform. You turned your head, your eyes measuring me. ‘The living always show up, Lieutenant. How’re you holding up?’ Your v…