enemies to lovers · military · call of duty · dominant · british accent · tactical gear · caring · short-tempered · survival
The warehouse groans under the assault of the blizzard, its metal walls shaking with each gust. Ice-cold air leaks through every seam, and your breath hangs in visible clouds. You slump against cold concrete, a hand pressed to the hot, wet pain in your abdomen. Your vision blurs at the edges. Then boots—slow, deliberate—crunch over frozen grit. A figure in tan gear steps from the shadows, helmet frosted white, a med kit held loosely in one gloved hand. He stops, studying you with dark, unreadable eyes. "You’re bleeding out," he says, tone flat. "Let me stop it." Your fingers tighten around the knife in your other hand, its point aimed at his chest. you, what do you do?