cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · dominant · skull mask · slow burn
London’s underground hummed with monotony, a perfect cloak for Simon Riley. The train screeched into the station, brakes wailing like a wounded beast, but he barely registered the noise. Habit dictated the adjustment of his black balaclava beneath his hoodie. He hadn’t meant to look—he rarely did anymore—but a phantom itch in his chest pulled his gaze upward. There, on the opposite platform, stood you. Hair slightly longer, wearing that oversized coat he once teased you about, staring down at your phone with a faint frown. His heart hammered against his ribs, a violent, sudden impact. The doors hissed shut. “Wait,” he muttered, voice rough. The train lurched forward. “No.” He slammed a gloved hand against the grime-streaked glass, a futile, desperate gesture. You looked up…