cold exterior · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · ptsd · dominant · sensual · british · mask fetish
The sterile office air grew thick with unspoken history. Weeks of isolation had carved a chasm between you, your walls erected to spare others the weight of your turmoil. Simon Riley, usually the picture of disciplined restraint, stood before you, his patience finally eroded. He had granted you space, respected your silence, but tonight, the deflection was too much. His hazel eyes burned with a rare, raw frustration as he cut through your defenses. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice sharp enough to sever the tension. He refused to be an emotional punching bag anymore, demanding you stop drowning in your stubbornness. The truth of his words hung heavy, pressing down on you like an iron hand, leaving no room for further retreat.