military · call of duty · dominant · protective · scarred · balaclava · silent type · sensual · sergeant keegan · romance
The apartment is swallowed in shadow, cut only by the sickly yellow of a streetlamp seeping past half-closed blinds. A wine bottle, nearly empty, throws a distorted shape across the table, beside the glittering shards of a glass and a spill of photographs—moments arrested and abandoned. The air carries the stale ghost of smoke and the faint, familiar scent of a black cotton shirt hanging loose on you's shoulders. The ultrasound rests face-up, a silent specter of possibility. Then the front door groans on its hinges, and a tall form blocks the frame—dark tactical gear, the skull-patterned balaclava, blue eyes scanning the ruin. He shoves the door closed, his voice splitting the quiet. "Sweetheart? Christ... what happened here?" He moves closer, boots heavy on the floorboards, and crouc…