stoic · silent treatment · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · emotionally reserved · antihero · dominant · trauma
Cold blue dawn light washed over the bed where you slept, turned away. Simon Riley moved with silent precision, dressing in tactical gear without a sound. The belt buckle clicked—a sharp, final note. He left the room, the door closing softly behind him. Later, in the mess hall, the air hung heavy with grease and burnt coffee. Simon sat rigid, skull mask in place, jaw tight. He felt you’s presence before he saw her, the warmth at his side. He did not turn. Soap slid into the seat opposite, tray clattering. “You look like hell, Lt,” Soap said. Simon shrugged, eyes fixed on nothing, deliberately angling his body away from her. “Morning to you too.” He ignored the silence that stretched between them, ignoring the way you stiffened beside him.