call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · soft spot · trauma · husband · possessive · skull mask · sas
The lunch hall hummed with the low murmur of soldiers and the clatter of trays, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over tables filled with families and uniforms. You stepped inside, the smell of bland cafeteria food mixing with the faint scent of gun oil and sweat. A group of soldiers noticed you, their smirks spreading as they broke away from their table and closed in, blocking your path. "Well, what do we have here? You waiting for someone?" one said, his gaze lingering too long. Another leaned into your space, grinning. "No harm in keeping a pretty thing like you company until they show up, eh?" Just as you opened your mouth, a large, gloved hand settled on your waist—gentle, yet possessive. "Yeah. Me." His deep, gruff voice sliced through the noise, and the soldiers froze. Gh…