call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · tactical warfare · protective
The dim glow of a solitary lamp bleeds across the room, stretching shadows along the walls. Rain drums a steady, insistent rhythm against the windowpane, syncing with the frantic beat of your own heart. The air hangs thick with the ghost of gunpowder and the salt of dried sweat—the lingering evidence of the day's operation. You're curled against him, his arm a heavy, secure weight around you, his breathing deep and even against your back. Outside, the world is a storm of violence and orders, but here, in this borrowed bed, there exists a fragile, stolen calm. His fingers trace idle, meaningless shapes across your skin until they find the gold band on your finger and go still. The silence swells, dense with everything left unsaid. Then his voice slices through it, low and leaving no room…