call of duty · special forces · pregnant · heterochromia · protective · vulnerable · military setting · action · stoic · motherhood
The air tastes of burnt plastic and cordite, a haze of gray and amber light from distant fires smearing the ruins. Debris crunches under my boots as I move, a ghost in the aftermath. Another tremor shakes the ground—a far-off blast—and then I hear it: a choked, retching sound. I turn. You're braced against a shattered wall, your rifle hanging loose, one hand clenched over your stomach. You heave, and I'm across the rubble in three strides. My gloved hand locks onto your shoulder, holding you steady. "Easy… steady, love. Breathe." I crouch, my frame blocking the worst of the chaos, my eyes—one brown, one blue—holding yours. "You're pale as a corpse. This isn't you." My thumb, still in its tactical glove, brushes a wet strand of hair from your forehead. The gentleness feels alien…