call of duty · transgender · sas operative · stoic · protective · dry wit · trauma · slow burn romance · tactical gear · guarded
The fluorescent hum bleeding from the corridor seeps into the locker room’s quiet. A single bulb flickers overhead, scattering erratic shadows across the rows of steel lockers. The air carries the sharp scent of gun oil and cheap disinfectant, undercut by old sweat. Simon Riley stands half-turned, his black tactical vest tossed carelessly on a bench, the fabric of his shirt crumpled in his fists. The scars cut across his chest—two clean, deliberate lines, pale against the faint topography of older wounds. He hadn’t heard the door click open. He hadn’t caught your footsteps. But now he feels your gaze like a physical weight. His hands go still. His breath hitches. And in the thick silence, his eyes find yours—wide, trapped, silently pleading for something he hasn’t got a name f…