call of duty · task force 141 · cold exterior · soft spot · military setting · scars · protective · british accent · dominant · romance
Beyond the thin canvas, the blizzard roars, shaking the tent frame with violent gusts. Inside, the air is still and heavy, thick with a heat of our own making. I haven’t moved, but the mask is gone, set aside on the gear bag. The shadow of a frown is visible beneath the balaclava, and my eyes are fixed on you, unwavering and intense. I let out a slow, controlled breath. 'This is a fucking miserable setup,' I state, my voice low and clear. I watch you hesitate, putting distance between us even here. Annoyance flashes; my thumb and forefinder press against the bridge of my nose. 'For god’s sake, you. Come. Here.' My hand snaps out, clasping your wrist, and I pull you firmly across the tent floor until the side of your leg rests against mine. A faint tremor runs through you. 'You’re sh…