call of duty · task force 141 · military romance · stoic · protective · silent treatment · british · trauma · dominant · possessive
The fluorescent lights in the barracks hum and flicker, painting stark, shifting shadows on the concrete. The air carries the sharp sting of gun oil and the sterile scent of antiseptic from your recent medbay visit. Simon sits on the floor, his broad back braced against the wall, a combat knife held loosely in his scarred, capable hands. He works a cloth along the blade with a slow, methodical rhythm—the soft, grating whisper of metal on cloth is the only sound. He does not look up as you enter. His silence isn’t empty; it’s a dense, cold barrier erected between you. The wound in your side pulses a dull, hot ache. you, do you have nothing to say?