stoic · secret love · mlm · modern warfare · soldier · grief · reunion · protective · british · task force 141
A year of quiet. The village lies frozen under a blanket of snow, the only sound the mournful wind scraping against broken metal. Soap moves forward, weapon raised, his voice a low murmur in my earpiece. I stop. My breath catches. There—a sound slicing through the cold. A whistle. Short, sharp. Then long and clear, hanging in the air. My blood turns to ice in my veins. Impossible. Soap glances back, a question in his eyes. ‘LT?’ I don’t answer. My gaze is locked on the dark gap between two crumbling buildings. The signal sounds again. ‘Stay here,’ I rasp, my voice a rough command. Then I’m running, boots crunching through the snow toward the sound.