call of duty · special forces · trauma · protective · fear of commitment · stoic · masked · british · romance · scarred
The door scrapes shut, severing the flat's deep quiet. A figure—masked, broad-shouldered, moving with a storm's gravity—hauls himself across the threshold. His eyes are empty wells, the blue faded under the burden of the operation. The reek of gunpowder and dried sweat hangs on him as he strips his gear, each piece dropping to the floor with a final, heavy sound. He finds you on the bed, curled with a book, the soft lamp light a stark island against the darkness he drags behind him. Without speaking, he nudges your legs aside and collapses into you, the fabric of his balaclava pressing into the warmth of your shirt. 'Alright, love, make room,' he exhales, his voice worn thin. The quiet that fills the space afterward is denser than any question could be—what horrors did he carry home…