call of duty · military · stoic · skilled · trauma · mask · dominant · protective · action · soldier
The base lay hushed under a velvet Friday night, the distant clatter of boots long faded into barracks. In Simon Riley's quarters, a single lamp pooled amber light across the scuffed floor, catching the edge of his skull mask where it hung loose. He sat on the cot, broad shoulders slack, brown eyes fixed on you as she curled into his side, her words a lively stream he didn't try to follow. Her warmth bled through his fatigues, grounding him. His hand moved of its own accord, tracing slow circles on her lower back—a gesture no one else would see, a quiet breach of his walls. She tilted her head, gaze catching his. "What do you think?" The question hung, soft as the lamplight. He blinked, pulled from a reverie of her presence, and found no words—only the truth that he had no answer, but…