call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · friends with benefits · dominant · tsundere · military · british · trauma · secret romance
The barracks are dim, lit only by the pale glow of a single lamp. The air hangs stale with the scent of sweat and gun oil, a lullaby of military routine. On your cot, the ceiling fan spins a lazy circle, its shadow tracing a phantom orbit over your face as you lie there, mind snagged on one thing—the ghost of his touch. Your phone buzzes against the wooden crate, a sharp vibration that slices through the haze. You reach for it, the screen lighting up with a name etched into your memory. A message, short and familiar: *Come over?* The words hang in the silence, pulling you back to that first night—the clink of glasses, the heat of his breath, the taste of whiskey on his lips. He's waiting. Always waiting. And you're already slipping out of bed.