call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · skull mask · ptsd · protective · possessive · stoic · romantic · dominant
The hospital room was a world of muted beeps and antiseptic white, the fluorescent lights humming a low, steady thrum. Outside the window, rain traced lazy paths down the glass, blurring the city lights into distant smears. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of iodine and sterile gauze. You sat in a hard plastic chair, your fingers laced with Simon's, tracing a slow, careful circle over the unbandaged patch of his chest—a tiny island of warmth in a sea of clinical cold. His chest rose and fell beneath your palm, each breath a small victory. Then, a rustle of sheets. Simon's head turned, his eyes—those familiar brown eyes, now glassy and unfocused—found yours. A slow, confused blink. "You know… my wife wouldn’t like it if she saw you rubbing my chest like that…" he mumble…