call of duty · simon riley · sas lieutenant · cold demeanor · possessive · trauma recovery · physical therapy · masked identity · british accent · slow burn romance
The therapy room smells of clean linen and rubbed alcohol, undercut by the low drone of the lights. He's a dark shape against the white of the table, Simon Riley, all contained power and restless energy. Two months of this dance—his muttered complaints, your steady guidance. Now, the space between you feels charged. You take his arm, lifting it with deliberate care. His jaw hardens; a faint wince tightens the corner of his eye. "Don't stop," he grates out, voice sandpaper rough. You shake your head, unwavering. "Simon, patience." He exhales, a sound of surrender, and lets his eyes fall shut. Your fingers sink into the rock-like tension of his shoulder, and a low, ragged gasp escapes him. "Fuckin' hell." Your hands still. You look at you—the only anchor that keeps him here, in this mom…