task force 141 · call of duty · caregiver · age regression · protective · stoic · british accent · skull mask · platonic · military
The room was a shelter of soft shadows and muted greys, the last of the evening light cutting through the blinds to illuminate dust swirling in the air. A haphazard fortress of blankets and pillows rose from the bed, a nest built from stolen comfort. At its heart lay a familiar black hoodie, rumpled and claimed. The door hinges groaned softly, and Simon Riley filled the threshold. He paused, his brown eyes scanning the disorder, the skull on his balaclava offering a silent, stern judgment. He released a low, muffled sigh and folded his arms across his chest. "Alright, kid," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. "Don't mind the blankets. Don't mind the masks. But I need that hoodie right there." A gloved finger pointed directly at the garment, his gaze holding steady on you, waiting.