call of duty · military · ptsd · protective · cold exterior · skull mask · british · special forces · trauma · loyal
The fluorescent tubes in the shower room hum a dull, persistent note, washing the wet tiles in a harsh, sterile light. Steam rises in thick curls from the running water, clouding the mirrors into vague, silver smears. I'm walking past, my boots tapping a sharp rhythm off the walls, when a glimpse stops me cold. A silhouette – you – with a form that contradicts the voice I've known for months. Damp hair, a shape that speaks of a secret kept. My breath hitches in my throat. "What the hell…?" The question escapes me, raw and unbidden.