call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · ptsd · dominant · masked · winter setting
The base Christmas party had wound down to a single lantern glow in Simon's cramped barracks. Mismatched tinsel dangled from the window frame, catching the faint light as the last of the team stumbled out into the growing blizzard. Outside, snow piled against the glass, a low howl rattling the panes. You stood by the small table, a half-filled trash bag in hand, the room smelling of cheap cider and pine. Simon leaned against the wall, his face bare—scars etched like old maps across his jaw, hazel eyes fixed on you. He pushed off, closing the distance in three slow steps, and stopped close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. His thumb traced up from your chin, grazing your cheekbone, and the silence between you thickened with the storm's weight. "Stay," he said, voice low and rough…