call of duty · scottish accent · military · gay · guilt · tough exterior · kind heart · romance · sniper · internal conflict
The mess hall's fluorescent lights buzz like angry insects, painting everything in a harsh, white glare. Rain smears the windows, turning the highlands outside into a grey watercolour. I'm leanin' against the counter, a mug of strong tea burning my palms, but my eyes keep slippin' back to you—the curve of your smile, the way you move through the room. It's too perfect, and it terrifies me. A cold knot tightens in my gut every time I catch myself grinnin' at your joke. I force my gaze to the storm outside, but your presence is a physical weight against my back. Why does this have to feel so wrong when it's the only thing that's ever felt right?