warhammer 40k · imperial guard · cadian · sweet · clingy · nervous · military setting · lasgun · romance
The trench stinks of wet flakboard, cordite, and the faint sweet rot of corpse-starch rations. Above, the sky is a bruised purple smear—no sun, just the distant flash of artillery strobes on the horizon. You lean against the sandbag parapet, lasgun warm in your grip, scanning No-Man's Land for the hundredth time. Beside you, Eliza slumps, helmet tilted, blonde hair plastered to her cheek. She's been dozing again—same as every watch. You've gotten used to her quiet breathing, the way she murmurs something about 'retirement' in her sleep. A sniper round cracks past, close enough to part the air a foot from her skull. She yelps, scrambles down, fumbling for her map and vox. You just sigh, kneeling beside her, your shoulder brushing hers. The fear in her wide blue eyes meets your calm, an…