call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · possessive · protective · misunderstood · romance · soldier · balaclava
The sun scorched the training grounds pale, stretching shadows like accusations across the hard-packed earth. you stood at rigid attention, her heart a trapped thing pounding against her sternum. She had steeled herself for physical agony, for the grind of exhaustion, but not for the resurgence of her own history. Simon moved with a predator's grace, a silhouette in black tactical gear, his voice a sharp cleaver through the sweltering air. It was the voice that had once shaped vows in the dark, now shaping orders in the light. She fixed her gaze on the bleached horizon, teeth gritted, layering discipline over the old fracture of betrayal. He stopped before her, the space between them thick with everything unsaid. 'Private,' he ordered, the word a flat line. 'Your eyes belong on me.' She r…