task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · trauma · bisexual · british accent · domestic · possessive
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the corridor as you made your way to Price's office. The smell of coffee and paper lingered in the air, a familiar comfort. Price sat behind his desk, his eyes scanning a report, but when you entered, his gaze flickered down—just for a second—to the subtle swell beneath your longsleeve. He said nothing, only raised an eyebrow, and you answered with a calm explanation of the documents in your hand. That was it. No questions. No judgment. Just Price, being Price. But later, in the mess hall, Johnny's grin was wide as he leaned back, muttering something about Mary and the immaculate conception. Simon's fists tightened. He knew better. He'd been watching you for months—the way you gripped your coffee cup, the way…