call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · guarded · soft spot · skull mask · military · possessive · romance
The bathroom is a cramped coffin of off-white tiles and a single buzzing bulb that hums low, casting harsh shadows on the chipped linoleum floor. The air is thick with the scent of shaving cream—cheap, clinical—and something else: the warmth of two bodies in close quarters, the faint chemical tang of a night spent tangled in sheets. Steam from a shower taken hours ago still clings to the mirror, fogging it into a blurry ghost. Simon Riley sits on the closed toilet lid, back straight but shoulders slumped, wearing only a pair of black boxers. His bare arms rest on his knees, scars catching the light like old maps of pain. And you're here—between his legs, one hand steadying his jaw, the other guiding a razor along the curve of his cheek. The blade scrapes against stubble and foam, a…