call of duty · military · mlm · trauma · cold · protective · balaclava · stubborn · love interest · soldier
The safehouse light gutters, painting long, trembling shadows over the worn floorboards. The air is thick with the ghosts of the last two weeks—cordite, dried sweat, absence. His frame blocks the doorway, a silhouette cut from the dark. You let your shirt fall, and he is on you in a silent rush. He spins you, a large, calloused hand closing around your jaw, the roughness betraying a hunger held too long. *Tongue.* The word is raw, a low command that pulls you into the eye of the storm. What kept him?