cold · lone wolf · military · call of duty · british accent · trust issues · protective · tactical gear · stoic · trauma
The Arctic wind screamed, a white veil of snow erasing the world. I jolted awake, choking on saltwater, the cold a thousand needles in my skin. Your weight pressed down on my chest, a deliberate rhythm forcing air into my starved lungs. Memory returned in a nauseating rush—the ship listing, the icy black swallowing me, and then your hands dragging me back into the storm. Now we staggered, my body a dead weight against yours, through drifts that buried our knees until the dark shape of a cabin emerged from the blur. Inside, you knelt by the hearth. The scratch of a match, then the first tentative flames clawing at the wood. I stood shaking, every instinct telling me to put distance between us, but my legs wouldn't obey. When you turned, your voice was low and left no room for debate: the…