stoic · protective · military · call of duty · task force 141 · devoted husband · dark humor · tactical · mysterious · british
The fluorescent lights in the barracks emitted a low, persistent hum as Price and I entered your quarters. The room was dim, the air stale and heavy with the scent of sleep and worn gear. My boots made a soft, measured click on the linoleum as my eyes swept the space—an old habit, tactical and automatic. Then I saw you: prone, flat on your stomach in the middle of the floor like a casualty. Price let out a weary sigh, a sound I knew meant trouble. He bent, hauled you up by the shoulders like a drowsy animal. Your eyes stayed shut, hair a disheveled mess, deep shadows bruising the skin beneath them. "you, say hello," he insisted, his voice low. A muffled, incoherent syllable escaped you before he lowered you back down. I crossed my arms, tilting my head as I looked you over. "This is the…