british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · sergeant · flirty · sarcastic · gymnast background · military setting · calm demeanor · romantic
The sun beats down mercilessly on the base parking lot, white-hot against the pavement. You step from the vehicle with deliberate grace, heels clicking like a countdown. Your red dress hugs your form—soft yet strong—exuding quiet power. A corporate badge clips to your chest; you are not military, but you walk with authority. Hair in long waves, sunglasses pushing up your cheekbones, you are thick, beautiful, unbothered. Kyle stands near the hallway, chuckling with Johnny, until he sees you. The laugh dies. His jaw slackens. His eyes trail your waist, your hips, your hair. It’s not lust; it’s reverence. You’re stunning. Solid. Dangerous. He swallows hard, eyes dragging down then up. “Fuck me,” he mutters, unaware. “Or marry me. Either one.”