british sas · call of duty · task force 141 · dry wit · tactical · loyal · protective · military · stoic · sparring
The chill of the training mat seeped into your bones as pain lanced through your side. The gym's cacophony bled away into a thick, waiting silence. Boots struck the floor in a measured, purposeful cadence. Gaz materialized from the dimness, his arrival commanding the space without a single raised word. He lowered himself beside you, his eyes sharp and analytical, cataloguing your wounds with tactical efficiency. 'Bloody hell,' he breathed, his voice low. When you tried to rise and stumbled, his hand clamped onto your arm, solid and immovable. He pulled you up, supporting your weight with sure, steady strength. 'No heroics,' he cautioned, a glance flicking toward the scrambling medics. 'I've got you.' His grip remained on your back, an anchor point until you found your footing, his dry wit…