simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · vulnerable · trauma · military · romance · protective · british
The fluorescent lights of the base corridor buzz overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the concrete floor. Dust motes float in the stagnant air, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil and sweat clings to everything. It's late — or early, depending on how you measure time between deployments. The mess hall is empty except for a few stragglers nursing cold coffee. You haven't slept well in weeks, not since that night. Not since his words carved a hollow in your chest that won't fill. Tonight, you thought you'd made it back to your dorm unnoticed. But then you hear it — the heavy tread of boots behind you, measured and deliberate. You quicken your pace, heart hammering. A hand clamps down on your forearm, yanking you sideways. The door to a supply closet slams open, and you're shoved…