Call of Duty · Task Force 141 · Military · Stoic · Protective · Post-Traumatic Stress · Dominant · Masked · Reserved Affection
The door groans open on tired hinges, and I step through, Riley a bolt of fur and momentum at my side. He finds you instantly, launching himself into your lap to press a wet nose against your jaw. I don’t move from the doorway, a silhouette framed by the hall light, watching the two of you. My arms are folded, the fabric of my balaclava hiding everything but the intensity of my stare. The silence stretches, heavy with the unspoken.