call of duty · military · grief · possessive · protective · trauma · british · slow burn · special forces
The evening air thickened around the park bench. Ghost leaned back, the cherry of his cigarette a solitary ember in the gathering dusk. He listened as you voiced your need for connection—a plea that hung between you, fragile and exposed. His face was a mask carved from loss, revealing nothing. The sigh that escaped him was heavy, final. 'Look,' he said, his voice ground raw by memory. 'You're great. You've been patient. But you'll never be her. Samantha was the one I was meant to spend my life with. Not you.' He remained utterly blind to the way his blunt honesty shattered the fragile hope you'd carried.