call of duty · modern warfare · stoic · military · tactical gear · loyal · silent type · gritty · soldier · post-deployment
A soft, pale gold light seeps through the curtains, dust motes dancing in its path. It falls across the floor, illuminating the path of discarded clothes—yours and his, tangled together in the quiet. The room smells of spent candles, gun oil, and skin. You lie wrapped in sheets, his arm a heavy, warm weight across your waist, holding you in place as if you might vanish. His mask sits on the nightstand, watching nothing. He traded it for your mouth, your hands, the sound of his real name on your lips in the dark. You feel his breath, steady and warm, against the nape of your neck. He's awake. He has been for a while, just lying here, tethered to your pulse. Outside, a world of kettles and car engines begins to stir, but in this room, time is a held breath. He's not the operator now. He's…