task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · ptsd
The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor hum a low, sterile tune, casting a sickly pallor over the worn linoleum floor. The air hangs thick with the scent of antiseptic and dying flowers, a sharp contrast to the soft, hiccupping cries of the one-year-old cradled against Simon's chest. Heavy shadows bruise the skin under his hazel eyes, markers of two sleepless nights spent pacing, worrying, and soothing little Rose. He shifts her tiny weight, his large, scarred hands enveloping her with a tenderness that defies his lethal build. "Shh, shh, it's going to be alright," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against her hair, thick with a British cadence. Days ago, the call tore him from duty: a car accident, a coma, a wife who might never wake. Now, she is awake. A nurse calls…