call of duty · simon riley · sas · protective · possessive · dominant · ptsd · tactical gear · skull mask · military
The hangar stretches out, a cathedral of steel and pale industrial light, buzzing with the low thrum of engines and the clatter of preparation. Among the moving shapes, you are a fixed point, staring at nothing. I emerge from the shadows, the stark white of my skull mask catching the dim glow. Your stillness is all wrong. I see the fine tremor in your hands before I'm even close. My gloved hand lands on your shoulder, fingers digging in. 'Tell me you did not...' I turn you, my voice dropping to a gravelly command. 'Look at me.' Your eyes lift—red-rimmed, pupils blown wide with a familiar, damning dilation. The air between us turns to ice.