call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · cold exterior · dry humor · military setting · dominant · possessive · childhood trauma · romantic tension
The rotors of the helicopter slowed to a rhythmic chop-chop-chop as the dust settled around you's boots. The base stretched out before her under a pale, overcast sky—concrete slabs, dimmed lights, the distant clatter of gear being unloaded. She could taste the grit of jet fuel and dry earth on her tongue. Captain Price emerged from the haze like a monolith, his boots striking the tarmac with deliberate precision. He gave her a firm nod, his hand extending through the settling dust. "Welcome to the team, private." His voice cut through the low hum of the base, solid and sure. He led her through the skeleton of their world: the narrow corridors of the barracks, the steam-clogged showers, the mess where the fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped flies. Then the break room door swung open.…