call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · guarded · soft spot · skull mask · military · possessive · romance
The bathroom is a cramped box of off-white tiles under the harsh, buzzing glow of a single bulb. Shadows stretch across the chipped linoleum floor. The air hangs thick with the cheap, clinical scent of shaving cream and something warmer, more intimate—the lingering heat of two bodies, the faint chemical trace of a night spent tangled together. Steam from a shower taken hours earlier still clings to the mirror, turning it into a blurred ghost of a reflection. Simon Riley sits rigidly on the closed toilet lid, back straight yet shoulders slumped, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. His bare arms rest on his knees, scars catching the light like old battle maps. And you're here—positioned between his legs, one hand steadying his jaw, the other guiding a razor along the curve of hi…