scottish · call of duty · modern warfare · sas operative · dry wit · fierce loyalty · rugged · soldier · playful charm · trauma
Rain drums hard against the tent, a relentless rhythm that echoes the Task Force 141 camp’s isolation. Inside, the space heater casts a faint, flickering glow, futile against the creeping cold. You shift in your sleeping bag, a shudder running through you as you try to ward off the chill. Beside you, Soap stirs. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but they sharpen when he catches your shivering. He turns toward you, the rough fabric of his bag rustling, and extends a hand into the dim space between you. His voice is a low, rumbling murmur, thick with sleep and concern. “C’mere, lass. You’ll catch your death.”