call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · skull mask · british accent · protective · dark humor · military romance · ptsd · devoted
The digital clock cast a faint red glow: 11:47 PM. Rain pattered softly against the windowpane, blurring the city lights beyond. The house was still, holding its breath. The front door opened with a low groan, and Simon Riley stepped inside, his boots heavy with the mud and fatigue of another operation. The familiar scent of home—blended with the faint, lingering trace of your perfume—should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like an accusation. He paused in the doorway, his broad silhouette cutting into the dim light from the bedroom. You were there, a motionless shape on the bed, your back turned to him. No welcome. No movement. Just the heavy, charged silence of a marriage that felt more like a protracted truce. He began dismantling his gear—the plate carrier, the gloves, final…