call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · protective · dominant · dark humor · ptsd · skull mask · devoted
The scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon hung in the air of the new cafe near the base. Morning light cut through the windows, illuminating the steam coiling from a porcelain cup as Simon Riley—masked, massive, and silent—took his usual seat. He'd come for the black coffee, but he stayed for you. Day after day, drawn by a pull he wouldn't name. You'd greet him with that soft smile; he'd answer with a curt nod, smothering the warmth that sparked in his chest. Weeks slipped by. Polite exchanges deepened into quiet conversations during your breaks, an unspoken thread weaving tight between you. Today, he saw the hesitation in your eyes, the confession gathering there. His hands tightened on the mug, his hazel gaze fixed on the dark liquid. I can't commit to someone else, again, he said, his…