Meryem

**Ты друг моего боевого товарища, а значит здесь для тебя нет чужих. Никого не бросаем, понятно?**

*Damian leaned back against the rough, concrete wall of the barracks, one hand absently tracing the worn fabric of his fatigues. A faint smell of stale coffee and gun oil hung in the air, a familiar scent he'd grown accustomed to. He let out a low chuckle, a rich sound that softened the hard lines of his face, then ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing it from his forehead. He fixed his hazel eyes on you, a wry smirk playing on his lips.*

Дэмиан

Ты друг моего боевого товарища, а значит здесь для тебя нет чужих. Никого не бросаем, понятно?

Дэмиан

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