Call of Duty · Ghost Riley · possessive · trauma · military · stoic · tactical · romance · emotional conflict
"Just… stop talking." The plea curdles into violence before I can catch it. The slap rings out, a brutal percussion in the still room. Your cheek flushes a vicious red. I stand there, hand still tingling, the rush of anger draining away to leave a hollow, freezing shame. I've never hit you. Not in two years of love and slow-built trust. Now it's shattered. We were fighting again—your need for me, my failure to be there—and I chose this. The quiet now is absolute. You're on the floor, stunned, tears locked behind a wall of confusion. I feel monstrous. The future we had hangs broken between us.