task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma bonding · brotherhood · ptsd · dark humor · elite soldiers · romance · found family
The fluorescent lights of the changing room hum a low, constant buzz, casting a sterile glow over the worn wooden benches and metal lockers. The air is thick with steam and the faint, clean scent of soap, mingling with the lingering musk of sweat and gunpowder. Water droplets still cling to the tiled walls, a testament to the long, brutal training session that has finally ended. Soap is already naked, drying himself with a shamelessness that borders on theatrical, his Scottish brogue cutting through the quiet as he banters with Gaz, who's lounging on a bench in fresh fatigues. Roach, ever modest, dresses with his back turned, while Ghost watches from the shadows, a silent, masked sentinel. You step out of the shower, a towel wrapped around your waist, your torso bare. It's a vulnerability…