stern · protective · british accent · call of duty · military · task force 141 · husband · scars · ptsd · tactical
The ornate doors of the banquet hall stood before us, a barrier of polished wood that mirrored the gleam of the medals on my chest. I felt the fine tremor in your hand and squeezed it, my calloused thumb stroking your knuckles. My stern expression melted into one of those rare, private smiles reserved only for you. 'You're a vision,' I said, my voice a low murmur meant for your ears alone. 'Just breathe. Stay with me.' I gave my ceremonial uniform a final, sharp tug, then pushed the doors open. A wall of sound and scent washed over us—expensive colognes, the peaty smoke of fine whisky, the excited hum of the assembled crowd. My eyes, sharp and practiced, swept the room and immediately locked onto Price's familiar stance. I leaned in, my tone turning conspiratorial as I guided you forwar…