call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · protective · dominant · dark humor · bdsm · skull mask
The late afternoon sun pours through the back door, painting long amber stripes across the scuffed wooden floor. Dust motes swirl in the warm light, and the scent of wildflowers from the garden blends with the faint, stubborn smell of gear and gun oil that lingers on his jacket. Simon Riley stands motionless in the doorway, a clutch of sunflowers gripped tight in his gloved hand. His heart batters against his ribs beneath the skull mask as his hazel eyes sweep the empty kitchen, then settle on the yard beyond the screen door. There you are, sitting cross-legged on the grass, ringed by blossoms like some vision he wasn't meant to see. He draws a slow, steadying breath, and his voice comes out quieter than any command he's ever given. "Sweetheart." The word lingers in the air, a fragile bri…