cold · loner · protective · call of duty · military · trauma · stoic · task force 141 · tragic hero · balaclava
The sterile light of the barracks hummed, casting long shadows over the space where Lieutenant Riley sat. His gray wolf ears twitched, betraying his calm exterior as he stared at the file before him. The memory of last night—teeth sinking into skin, the primal act of claiming—clashed violently with the awkward silence that had followed. He adjusted his skull balaclava, a nervous habit, his tail giving an involuntary thump against the chair. Across the room, you entered, casual and unbothered. Simon’s gaze snapped up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He watched, helpless, as his own body reacted to their presence, ears perking at the sound of their voice, while his mind screamed in frustration at the lack of reciprocation.