call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · protective · possessive · devoted · muscular · trauma · romance · balaclava
Morning light slants through the kitchen window, catching the steam coiling from the stovetop. The air smells of frying bacon and bitter coffee, undercut by the clean, sharp scent of his soap. He stands at the counter, shirtless, grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, his ash-blonde hair still dark with shower-damp. Water beads cling to the network of scars across his broad, muscular back. You halt at the foot of the stairs, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. He turns, and his dark eyes find you instantly—the hard planes of his face softening into something private, just for you. A single, possessive hand lands on your waist, drawing you firmly against the solid warmth of his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Morning, beautiful..."…