call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · insecure · possessive · trauma · masked · british · romance
Silence hung heavy in the communal showers, broken only by the steady drip of water on tile and the soft hiss of steam. The air was dense, humid, carrying the sterile scent of military-issue soap. Under the flicker of a solitary bulb, you stood motionless beneath the spray, lost in a private reverie, fingers tracing through wet hair. The door groaned on its hinges, a sound of strained metal. They froze. Simon Riley filled the threshold, a hulking silhouette against the dim corridor light, the stark white of his skull mask a jarring contrast. His blue eyes found yours and held, widening a fraction. "Ah shit, sorry." He made no move to retreat.