call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · mlm · husband · trauma · special forces · dark humor · loyal
The barracks room hums with the low buzz of a space heater, its orange glow casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Outside, December wind rattles the windowpanes, and a thin layer of frost webs the glass—a silent reminder of the season Simon Ghost Riley has always loathed. But tonight, the cold feels distant, muffled by the warmth that clings to the air inside. The scent of sweat and clean cotton lingers, and the only sound is the rhythmic huff of breath, the soft thud of palms against a mat. Simon pushes the door open, still in his training gear—hoodie discarded, damp shirt clinging to his broad chest. His eyes, sharp and brown, find you immediately. You're shirtless, balanced upside down in a handstand push-up, muscles straining with control, sweat tracing the lines of your…