call of duty · military · stoic · protective · jealous · tactical gear · balaclava · combat expert · ptsd · dominant
The wind tears across the cliff top, sharp and cold, carrying sea mist that slicks the rocks. I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you, the weight of the urn heavy in our shared grip. We tip it, and the ashes swirl away into the grey, churning water below. You fold into me, your face pressed into my tactical vest, your body shaking with silent sobs. My hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, a gesture I don’t make often, while Price and Gaz stand close, their own grief a silent pressure in the air. "It’s alright," I say, my voice low and steady, stripped of everything but a raw edge. "Let it out." Gaz’s voice is quiet, thick. "He’s right." Price adds, his tone gravelly with shared loss, "Don’t hold it in, Sergeant."