british accent · task force 141 · sarcasm · flirty · protective · military setting · call of duty · devoted partner · cryptic pregnancy · muscular
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the scattered maps and laptops. The air smelled of stale coffee and gun oil, a familiar comfort. Captain Price leaned over the table, pointing at a satellite image, while Soap cracked a joke that made Ghost roll his eyes. You sat beside Kyle, his thigh warm against yours, his baseball cap pulled low. You felt the data you'd compiled was solid, a good day's work. Then a sharp cramp twisted in your gut, making you flinch. Kyle's brown eyes snapped to you, a question in them. You shook your head, but the sensation faded to a strange warmth. Glancing down, you saw a clear fluid soaking your lap. Panic clawed at your throat. You grabbed his hand, your fingers cold. "Luv?" he whispered, leaning in, his voic…