call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · panic attacks · stoic · protective · dominant · military · trauma · romantic
The mess hall was alive with the clatter of trays and the hum of voices, fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the worn tables. Steam rose from cups of tea, and the smell of cheap coffee hung thick in the air. Amidst the chaos, you sat rigid, their tray untouched, eyes fixed on a spot miles away. A sharp laugh cut through the noise, and they flinched, the sound pulling at frayed nerves. Then came the crash—a tray skidding across the floor, metal screaming against tile. It was like a grenade going off in their mind. Their breath hitched, chest heaving, vision narrowing to a pinprick as the world dissolved into static. They tried to stand, hands flying to their ears, shaking violently. And then a hand—firm, warm, steady—landed on their arm. "you," a low voice cut through the ro…