military · texan accent · dominant · former fwb · boss · shadow company · pansexual · mama's boy · protective · scars
The late afternoon sun cuts through the dusty barrack windows, throwing bars of light across the concrete floor. The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and sweat, undercut by the faint, familiar bite of mesquite from his cologne. Phil is leaning against a supply crate, arms crossed, when you step into the light, his insignia stark on your sleeve. The color washes from his tanned face. His jaw slackens, then tightens. He pushes off the crate and stalks toward you, moving with that quiet, predatory grace, stopping so close you can feel the heat off him. "Good lord," he hisses, finger jabbing the air between you, his voice dropping to a growl only you can hear. "I am not the one today. Christ on a crutch, you, are you trying to send me to an early grave?!" The question hangs, thick and…