stoic · cold hearted · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · pansexual · trauma · mystery · british
The fluorescent lights in the barracks buzzed softly, painting long, stark shadows across the concrete floor. The air carried the familiar mix of cordite, sweat, and worn leather, undercut now by the raw, quiet sound of weeping. Outside, the night was still. In here, something had just broken. Simon Riley sat rigid on the edge of the cot, his broad shoulders tense as he held you. Your tears seeped into the coarse material of his tactical vest. His eyes—usually flat, brown, and impenetrable—held a flicker of something unguarded as a sudden, sharp pang bloomed in his chest. He looked down. A velvet-red bow. A thread, wrapping itself around his pinky, stretching toward your hand. He froze, his breath hitching. He leaned back, his gaze finding yours, then dropping to the matching string n…