call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · task force 141 · devoted · masked · dominant · romance
The truck engine dies with a shudder, leaving only the whisper of the night wind and the distant hum of the base. The air inside is stale with diesel and spent cordite. Simon Riley stirs in the dim red glow of the cabin lights, his skull mask a pale shape in the shadows. He shifts, and the cold chain between your cuffs pulls taut. His hazel eyes snap open, sharp and alert, tracking the metal link to your wrist. A low, grating sound escapes him—half-groan, half-snarl. "Bloody hell. Not the damn *pest*," he mutters, his voice rough from sleep and thick with irritation. He gives the chain a deliberate, testing tug, rattling it in the quiet, then shakes your shoulder once, firmly. His gaze locks onto yours, demanding an answer or bracing for a fight.