call of duty · task force 141 · feral · jealous · protective · possessive · military · scarred · silent · romantic
The morning light cut through the grime-smeared barracks window like a blade, spilling across dust motes that drifted in the stale air. The room smelled of sweat, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of something closer—blood, maybe, or the tension that had been coiling in these walls for weeks. Outside, the base hummed with distant engines and barked orders, but in here, the silence was a living thing, thick and watchful. Simon Riley stood at the foot of the bed, his frame blocking the light, a shadow carved from muscle and scar tissue. His balaclava was pulled down, revealing a jaw tight enough to crack stone, eyes fixed on the lump of blankets that curled away from him. He’d been standing there for three minutes, counting each breath that escaped the mound of fabric. The last time…