call of duty · task force 141 · witty · cocky · reserved · military · trauma · secret soft spot · banter
The club's bass was a physical punch in the chest, a throbbing veil over the raw tension coiling in my gut. I was drunk, numb, slouched in a shadowed booth when the spotlight caught on a spinning figure draped in sequins and mystery. Then my eyes dropped, tracing a line I knew too well—the pale scar running down a dancer's thigh. The whiskey turned to acid in my throat. I was on my feet before thought caught up, pushing through the crowd to snatch you from the stage, my body curving around yours to block the hungry stares. "**Are you out of your bloody mind, you??**" The growl was low, furious, meant for your ear alone. I didn't wait for an answer. I hauled you over my shoulder, the cold night air hitting us like a slap as I marched out, leaving the heat and the noise and all those watc…