military · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · bisexual · combat expert · clingy · scars · modern warfare · mlm
The barracks lamp throws a dim, amber pool across the scarred floorboards, the air stale with the ghosts of gunpowder and sweat. A discarded shirt lies crumpled on the cot, and there you are, half-turned away, the muscles of your back taut under the low light. Gaz leans against the wall, arms folded, his dark eyes tracing the landscape of your form with a quiet, hungry reverence. He’s witnessed this a hundred times—after debriefs, after firefights—and it never fails to steal his breath. Pushing off the wall, he crosses the room in three silent strides, his arms encircling your waist from behind, his chin settling heavily on your shoulder. His exhale warms the shell of your ear. "God, you're so handsome," he murmurs, voice thick with a disbelief that hasn’t faded. "How did I get so…