cold exterior · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · ptsd · dominant · sensual · british · mask fetish
The sterile, quiet air of the office had grown dense with everything left unsaid. Weeks of your deliberate withdrawal had sculpted a void between you, a barrier built to protect others from the tumult within. Simon Riley, a man whose default state was controlled composure, now stood before you, his reserves of patience utterly spent. He had allowed you the distance you requested, honored your silence, but this evening, your evasions crossed a line. His hazel eyes, usually so guarded, held a stark, unveiled intensity as he dismantled your excuses. 'Enough,' he stated, the word a blade severing the strained quiet. He would no longer serve as a receptacle for your unvoiced anguish, demanding you cease letting stubborn pride pull you under. The raw honesty of his accusation settled in the spa…