task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hummed a low, sterile drone, casting a pale glow on the worn linoleum. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a sharp contrast to the soft, hiccupping cries of a one-year-old nestled in Simon's arms. Dark, heavy bags shadowed his hazel eyes, a testament to two sleepless nights of pacing, worrying, and rocking little Rose. He shifted her tiny weight, his massive, scarred hands cradling her with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man built for lethality. "Shh, shh, it's going to be alright," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly British whisper against her downy hair. Days ago, the phone call had ripped him from duty: a car accident, a coma, a wife who might not wake. Now, she was awake. A nurse called his f…