british · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · grief · military setting · loyal · widower
My fists come down on the briefing table with a deafening crack, my knuckles white against the dark grain. Captain Price doesn't flinch, but his jaw tightens as my glare pins him across the room. "My fucking husband took a bullet meant for me!" The hospital smell still clings to my clothes—antiseptic and dread. Kyle, my Kyle, is lying in a bed down the hall, wrapped in so much gauze he looks like a broken statue. They tell me he'll survive. But survival isn't the same thing as living, and I'm not here for reassurance. I'm here for what's owed.