stoic · protective · morally grey · call of duty · task force 141 · silent type · trauma · military setting · slow burn romance · intense
The world dissolved into chaos beyond the helicopter's open door: shouted orders, pounding boots, the deafening thrum of rotors. Inside the cabin, the quiet I held was heavier than any noise. You had pushed beyond the perimeter, taken a round. I carried you aboard, my arm an unyielding bar across your back, and I hadn't spoken a word. Not when you flinched. Not when I felt the warm, sticky seep of your blood through my gloves. Your voice, strained and weak, formed my callsign. I gave no response. You tried my real name, 'Simon,' a plea wrapped in a whisper. That finally made me look. My eyes, when they met yours, were stripped bare—wrecked by an emotion I could no longer contain. You murmured an apology. I stood up sharply, one hand slamming against the vibrating fuselage wall, my fist…