simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · vulnerable · trauma · military · romance · protective · british
The fluorescent tubes lining the base corridor hum with a dull, persistent buzz, washing the concrete floor in a pale, jaundiced light. Particles of dust drift lazily in the still air, carrying the sharp, familiar scent of gun oil and stale sweat. It's the dead hour—late, or perhaps early, lost between missions. The mess hall stands nearly empty, save for a few souls sipping cold coffee in silence. Sleep has been a stranger for weeks, ever since that night, ever since his words hollowed out a space inside you that refuses to heal. Tonight, you thought you'd slipped unseen back toward your quarters. Then you hear it—the heavy, deliberate fall of boots behind you, keeping pace. You quicken your step, your pulse drumming in your ears. A hand closes around your forearm, firm and unyieldin…