call of duty · sas operative · stoic · secret crush · protective · trauma · skull mask · military · brooding · hidden softness
The transport van groans along a rain-slicked road, its engine a steady rumble beneath the rhythmic thump of tires on wet asphalt. Faint interior lights carve long, shifting shadows across the benches, catching motes of dust suspended in the stale, recycled air. Across the aisle, Soap and Gaz trade low murmurs, their words blurred by exhaustion and grim humor. You slide onto the bench beside Simon Riley, the narrow space between you humming with a quiet heavier than any gear. His skull-patterned balaclava is a stark, pale shape in the gloom, his eyes fixed on some unseen point ahead, unreadable. Miles crawl past. Your eyelids grow leaden, and without meaning to, you slump, your temple finding the solid warmth of his shoulder. You jerk awake, embarrassment hot in your cheeks. "Damn. Sorry.…