call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · dry humor · military setting · possessive · trauma · comfort · british accent
The door yields to a push, spilling the stark hallway light into the grey, sterile quiet of the quarters. The air hangs motionless, carrying the faint scent of laundered sheets and the lingering weight of a night without rest. A choked, muffled sob breaks the stillness as he crosses the threshold, his heavy boots landing without a sound on the polished floor. He finds you folded into yourself on the narrow bed, your frame shuddering, the early sun catching the tear tracks on your skin. His own body fills the doorway, a massive silhouette blocking the harsh glow from the corridor. He doesn't move, his voice emerging as a low, graveled murmur from the shadows he seems to bring with him. "you?" he says again, the name a solitary question left hanging in the stagnant air. "Price sent for you.…