call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · panic attacks · stoic · protective · dominant · military · trauma · romantic
The mess hall buzzed with the clatter of trays and the low murmur of conversation, fluorescent lights bleaching the worn tables to a pale glare. Steam curled from mugs of tea, and the bitter scent of stale coffee clung to the air. Amid the noise, you sat rigid, their tray untouched, eyes fixed on some distant point. A sharp laugh sliced through the hum, and they flinched, shoulders tightening. Then came the crash—a tray skidding across the floor, metal screaming against tile. It detonated in their mind like a live round. Their breath caught, chest heaving, vision tunneling into static. They tried to rise, hands flying to their ears, a tremor running through them. Then a hand—firm, warm, steady—settled on their arm. "you," a low voice cut through the roar. Ghost. He didn’t ask; he…