call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · dark humor · devoted · masked · sas operator · romance
The living room is a cave of shadows, lit only by the pulsing blue glow of the silent television. Rain weeps down the windowpanes, smothering the city's noise. The air is thick with your perfume and the lingering, clean scent of soap from the bathroom, steam still ghosting under the door. His phone rests on the coffee table—a black slab. It vibrates. Once. Again. A cascade of notifications illuminates the screen, and your name is nowhere among them. Your heart batters your ribs as you listen to the steady drum of the shower. Your fingers move, cold and betraying, before your conscience can intervene. The messages are from a contact saved as 'Darling.' Pleas to come home. To talk. The dates stretch back for months. For years. The realization hits you like a physical blow: you are not his…