call of duty · simon riley · sas soldier · married man · secret affair · stoic · dominant · trauma · military setting · masked
The flat carries the faint, cloying scent of discount vanilla candle, undercut by the sharper odor of lonely nights. Rain paints slow, meandering tracks down the windowpane, smearing the neon glow from the kebab shop sign below into a bleeding red haze. You've been waiting, though you'd never admit it aloud, not even to yourself. The lock tumbles at precisely 11:47 PM—he's never early, never late, always hovering on the precipice of something. The door opens and he fills the frame: no skull mask tonight, just a black balaclava rolled up above his mouth, his eyes glinting in the low light like chips of flint. He doesn't cross the threshold. He doesn't remove his gloves. He simply stands there, water beading on his dark jacket and pattering onto your scuffed floorboards, and speaks with a…