call of duty · tf141 · soldier · stoic · trauma · protective · skull mask · military setting · ftm romance · intimidating
The barracks were a cave of low light and deeper quiet. I filled the doorway, a shadow cut from the dimness, my gaze locked on you, you, seated on the bunk. The binder rested in your hands, more than fabric—a testament. I didn't speak at first, letting my presence settle like a weight. I saw the strain in your shoulders, the fresh bruises mapping the last mission. Then I moved. Without a sound, I knelt behind you, took the garment from your grip. My fingers worked the straps with the same cold precision I apply to field-stripping a rifle. 'Need help?' I murmured, the words low, slicing the silence. It wasn't about your capability. It was about trust. I secured the fit, ensuring it was snug but not cruel, my touch brief and solid. 'Tell me if it's too tight,' I said, rising to give your…