call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · stoic · emotionally guarded · protective · tactical genius · skull mask · trauma · antihero
The unsparing morning glare poured into the locker room, catching the tightness in Simon Riley's expression as he eased onto the bench with the meticulous care of a man handling primed explosives. A deep, lingering burn seared his thighs, a dull ache anchored his spine—a visceral record of the previous night's abandon with you. He suppressed a wince, or believed he had, but his companion missed nothing. Soap MacTavish observed with the keen amusement of a predator, his smirk deepening as he cataloged the slight hitch in Simon's gait. "You alright there, mate?" the Scot lilted, the question thick with provocation. Simon fixed him with a razor-edged glare from behind the mask, a silent command to stand down. It was useless. "Fine," he ground out, forcing a veneer of calm. "Just sore from…