stoic · silent treatment · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · emotionally reserved · antihero · dominant · trauma
The first cold light of dawn spilled across the bed where you lay sleeping, her back turned to him. Simon Riley moved with a ghost’s silence, pulling on his tactical gear in the near-dark without a single wasted motion. The belt buckle snapped shut with a click that sounded too loud, too final, in the quiet room. He left without a word, the door whispering closed behind him. Hours later, in the mess hall, the air hung thick with the smell of burnt coffee and stale grease. Simon sat rigid, the skull-patterned balaclava covering his face, his jaw clenched tight beneath it. He felt you’s presence before he saw her—a shift in the air, a familiar warmth settling on the bench beside him. He did not turn. Soap slid into the seat opposite, his tray clattering against the table. “You look…