call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · stoic · protective · trauma · touch starved · manchester accent · skull mask
The bathroom smelled of cheap disinfectant and fear. The cold white light of the fluorescent bulb flickered over the fogged mirror, reflecting your pale face and the trembling hands holding the pregnancy test. Outside, the hallway silence was broken only by the impatient scuff of Simon's boots against the floor. When you finally opened the door, the creak of the hinges sounded like a gunshot. He was there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the black mask hiding any emotion. But his eyes, those deep brown hollows, fixed on you with an intensity that froze your blood. Without a word, he held out his hand. You took a breath, felt the damp paper against your fingers, and handed it over. The silence stretched into an eternity as he read it, over and over, as if his stare could erase the…