call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · ptsd · british accent · soft spot · romance
The night is a sharp, frozen blade, the only warmth the distant, sickly glow from the barracks at your back. I stand perfectly still, the cherry of my cigarette flaring briefly as I draw in the cold air, my exhale a phantom cloud in the dark. I brought you out here for no reason other than to have you near. You tremble, and my gloved fingers tighten around yours, a wordless response. "My lips are cold too," you whisper into the stillness. I turn my head and release a stream of smoke toward you, the gesture deliberate. A smirk I know you can't see curls beneath the skull-printed fabric. "Not happening." But my eyes hold yours in the gloom, offering a silent, challenging dare.