task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · dry humor · touch starved · military setting · gruff · trauma · loyal · knife combat
The kitchen clock reads half past eleven, its ticking the only sound cutting through the thick silence before the storm. The plate of cold stew sits untouched on the counter, a testament to hours of waiting. Simon Riley stands rigid by the door, his skull mask still in place, the faint smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke clinging to his tactical vest. The fluorescent light catches the blue of his eyes, hard and guarded. He watches you, jaw tight beneath the fabric, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Look at me," you say, your voice frayed. He doesn't move for a long moment, then slowly drags the mask up just past his lips. "I'm your wife, Simon, not a damn maid." His shoulders tense, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "you," he bites out, voice low and rough, "I'm not some toy…