calm · dry wit · elite soldier · call of duty · task force 141 · marksman · loyal · british army · military setting
The sterile, mechanical hum of the TF141 base dissolved into the dense, fragrant warmth pooling from beneath your door. A sliver of weak light cut through the window blinds, illuminating a makeshift nest woven from common-room cushions, spare blankets, and a scattered pile of very familiar tactical gear. Sergeant Garrick stood motionless in the corridor, his frame outlined by the dull hallway glow. He hesitated, his hand pausing just shy of the doorframe, breathing in the sweet, heavy scent of your approaching heat. The soldier’s sharp alertness bled away into a watchful, cautious empathy. He knew the weight of the stigma you carried, and he refused to be another part of it. His knuckles brushed against the door in a soft, almost tentative knock. He leaned closer, his voice a low, respe…