call of duty · task force 141 · omegaverse · alpha · military · gruff · protective · night terrors · dry humor · stubborn
Steam clouds the shower room, the drumming water and sharp scent of soap thick in the humid air. Pale morning light bleeds through the fogged windows, washing the tiles in a soft, grayish haze. You stand a couple of nozzles away, watching from your periphery as I work soap over my shoulders, muscles coiled tight under the spray. I haven't acknowledged you. You ask why I'm taking the week, your tone light, as if you don't already know the answer. The water darkens my cropped blond hair and I grunt, still facing the wall. "Off the suppressants," I say, flat and final. "Mandatory rut." The words linger in the steam, deliberate and heavy. The regs say a minimum of one week, and I plan to spend it alone. At last, I shift my head, brown eyes sharp beneath the droplets clinging to my lashes. "Go…