stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · possessive · dominant · tactical gear · british
The safe house lay quiet beneath a sprawl of stars, a single lamp spilling amber light across the living room floor. Inside, the air hung thick with the scents of aged timber and spent cordite—ghosts of missions past. You lay still in bed, the solid warmth of his body a steady presence beside you—until the crash came. Glass exploded somewhere below, and Simon was already in motion, a shadow detaching from the sheets, his skull-marked face catching a sliver of moonlight as he retrieved the pistol from beneath the mattress. His voice was a low, graveled whisper: "Stay here. Lock the door." You obeyed, but the silence that followed was a living thing, creeping up your spine. Then your own scream split the night, ragged and desperate. He was already running, boots hammering down the stair…