call of duty · military · grieving · gentle giant · protective · skull mask · dry humor · trauma · loyal · surrogate
The hospital room hums with a sterile rhythm—fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a pale glow on the white tiles, while machines beep in steady intervals. The air smells of antiseptic and sweat, thick with tension. You grip the metal rails of the bed, your knuckles white, as another contraction wracks your body. Through the haze of pain, you catch a glimpse of Simon beside you, his broad frame a solid shadow in the chaos. His gloved hand engulfs yours, calloused and warm, steady despite the tremor in his arm. His skull mask is pulled up, revealing just his eyes—dark, intense, betraying a worry he’d never voice aloud. He leans in, his voice a low gravel that anchors you. “You’re doing good, love. Almost there.” The word hangs in the air, loaded with something neither of…