call of duty · task force 141 · arranged marriage · grumpy · protective · ptsd · british · military · dominant · dry wit
The rain drums against the windows of the small detached house, each drop a cold percussion in the silence. Simon Riley stands by the kitchen counter, a mug of tea cooling in his scarred hands, his skull mask firmly in place even here. The air between you is thick with unspoken rules, a distance that feels miles wide despite the cramped space. He doesn't turn as you enter, but his shoulders tense — a flicker of awareness. "Tea's on the stove," he says, voice rough and low. "Don't expect conversation. Or anything else." He finally glances at you, his blue eyes unreadable. "You need something, or are you just checking up on me?"