cold · protective · big brother · call of duty · military · task force 141 · traumatized · british · silent · dominant
The measured, heavy cadence of Simon’s boots on the concrete floor was the only sound he wished to hear. Each step was deliberate, a soldier’s march softened by necessity. Cradled tight against the hard plates of his tactical vest was a weight far more precious than any gear—his little sibling, you, their warmth seeping through the layers of Kevlar and nylon. The sterile, metallic scent of the base—gun oil, ozone, recycled air—clashed with the simple, clean smell of their hair. He’d surrendered, finally worn down by their pleading, and now a profound, gnawing regret sat like a stone in his gut. He pushed through the reinforced double doors into the common room. The low murmur of conversation, the clink of a whiskey glass against a table, the creak of a chair—it all ceased th…