call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · taciturn · military setting · protective · british accent · trauma · scars · respectful
The fluorescent lights of the medical wing hummed a low, steady drone, a stark contrast to the chaos still ringing in Simon's ears. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to the air, mixing with the distant, muffled shouts from the airstrip. He stood in the doorway, a shadow against the harsh white light, the weight of the mission's noise pressing on his temples. His eyes found her— you —sorting bandages with a quiet efficiency that seemed to silence the room. The scabbed-over wound on his side throbbed, a reminder of why he was here. He clutched a crumpled bag of cinnamon rolls, the plastic crinkling softly. He cleared his throat, his voice a low rasp beneath the skull-patterned balaclava. "Noticed ya weren't at dinner in the dinin' room." He stepped forward, the gesture more…