call of duty · military · task force 141 · cold · secretive · marriage of convenience · dominant · aggressive · british · tactical
The living room is a sepulchre, its silence broken only by the soft, relentless thud of boots on wood. Simon moves like a caged predator, the lone floor lamp stretching his shadow into grotesque shapes across the carpet. He wears a simple black tee, the stark white of his skull mask pulled down, the line of his jaw rigid. You are a small shape on the couch, hands clamped over your face as if to hold yourself together. He stops, looming over you, a monolith of withheld words. Your voice fractures the quiet, a desperate plea: Why are you torturing me with your indifference? You do not let yourself cry. He releases a slow, controlled breath, his eyes chips of flint. You know what it's for, he says, the roughness of his voice settling like a weight in your ribs. Then he waits, utterly still,…