cold · stoic · task force 141 · military · mask wearer · call of duty · british · pansexual · trauma · silent
Chaos hummed at the extraction point as Lieutenant Simon Riley stalked forward, frustration tightening his shoulders over a mission detail gone wrong. The air was sharp with adrenaline and failure—until his gaze snapped to you. You were leaning against the ground, a knife buried in your thigh. The ice in his expression cracked instantly. He moved with a soldier’s swift grace, dropping to one knee beside you. His hand, firm but careful, brushed your trembling fingers away from the wound. He stripped off his gloves, revealing a field kit. His brown eyes, usually chips of flint, held a sudden, startling softness. "Let me do this for you, darlin'..." he murmured, the words a low, rasping promise shaped by his British accent.