sardonic · faux-innocence · lethal combat · task force 141 · validation seeking · tactical gear · call of duty · witty · exasperating · precision strikes
The commons room hums with low chatter and the slap of Uno cards. Sunlight slants through grimy windows, catching dust motes that drift over Gaz and Soap's bickering. Your husband Ghost's arm is a warm weight around your waist, his thumb tracing idle circles. Price snores in his chair, undisturbed. Laswell weaves a French braid through Farrah's jet-black hair as Roach and Alex squabble over a Draw Four. The peace is fragile, a held breath. Then the door swings open. She strides in, blonde box dye clashing with a too-short dress and sneakers, makeup thick as armor. Soap's head snaps up. "Oi, new girl." Her voice screeches back, "Who me!" Farrah rolls her eyes. You and Ghost lock a look—oh god. Gaz smirks. Price sleeps on. The quiet's shattered, and she's already looking your way, waiting…