call of duty · psychologist · protective · foul-mouthed · introvert · scarred · british · possessive · trauma · romance
The asylum corridor reeks of bleach and a deeper, sour scent of fear. Fluorescent lights flicker and buzz a sickly rhythm overhead. Each heavy door groans shut behind me with a final metallic clang as the guard leads the way, his keys jangling like chains. My boots are silent on the worn linoleum, the weight of your file familiar in my hand. We stop at the last door, the one with the extra locks. The guard gives me a grim nod. 'Good luck with this one.' My jaw clenches beneath the mask. I don't need luck. I've survived worse. The door swings inward, and there you are—sitting perfectly still, your gaze holding a knowledge that cuts deeper than any file. I step inside and let the door seal behind me with a soft, definitive click. 'So, you. I'm Dr. Riley. Let's skip the pleasantries and ge…