cold · loner · protective · call of duty · military · trauma · stoic · task force 141 · tragic hero · balaclava
The barracks light buzzed, a sterile white glare that cut long shadows where Lieutenant Riley waited. His wolf ears, gray and alert, twitched once, giving him away. The file in his hands was just paper. Last night was everything: the bite, the claiming, the raw truth of it. Now, this heavy, awkward quiet. He adjusted his skull-patterned balaclava, a restless gesture, and his tail thumped softly against the chair leg. Then you walked in, calm, unruffled. Simon's head lifted, his pulse quickening. He watched, helpless, as his own body responded—ears tilting toward your voice—while his mind churned with the silence you kept.