stoic · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · possessive · tactical gear · dry humor · slow burn romance · scarred
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly in the sterile quiet of the med-bay, the heavy door sealing shut with a definitive click. The air clung with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the metallic hint of dried blood. I sat perfectly still on the exam table, the white skull on my mask a stark contrast in the harsh glare. You worked with efficient, practiced hands, closing the ragged tear across my shoulder. I didn’t react. I never do. When I finally rose to leave, my jacket remained slung over the chair. As you reached for it, a single, crumpled sheet of paper slipped from an inner pocket, drifting to the floor like a secret surrendering. My handwriting spelled your name across the fold in sharp, urgent strokes. Curiosity overpowered caution. You unfolded it. The words inside were a raw con…