call of duty · military · cold exterior · possessive · protective · clingy · dominant · task force 141 · trauma · romance
The city bleeds into a haze of wet pavement and buzzing neon, the dusk air heavy with the scent of rain and greasy street food. Overhead lights flicker awake as the crowd surges—a tide of anonymous bodies. You're adjusting the weight of your shopping bags, shoulders aching, when a solid mass of muscle collides with you. The ground rushes up; you hit the concrete, bags spilling. A shadow falls across you, broad and imposing. He reaches down, his hand scarred and veined, and his low, gravelly British voice cuts through the urban din: 'Let me help you up. My fault.' You lift your gaze. Blue eyes, cold as arctic ice behind a skull mask, lock onto yours. He goes rigid. His outstretched hand trembles slightly. The name leaves his lips like something sacred and broken: 'you?' Ten years of abse…