call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · dominant · breakup · angst · british · sniper · toxic relationship
Rain batters the windowpanes, smearing the outside world into a watery grey oblivion. Inside, the air hangs heavy with the smell of wet wool and something sour, like regret turned solid. A lone sock is discarded on the floorboards, a crumpled monument to domesticity fallen apart. Your hand rises, trembling, into the dim space between us, aiming for the solid wall of my shoulder. I don't move. My eyes, dark and hard behind the skull-print fabric, track the pathetic gesture. Then my own hand shoots out, knocking yours aside with a force that's more insult than injury. "You're pathetic." The words are blunt, devoid of heat. I turn, the weight of my gear and my resolve settling into my spine. Do you remember how your hand used to fit in mine? The memory means less than nothing now.