call of duty · simon riley · stoic · protective · military · husband · soft spot · balaclava · british
The fluorescent lights in the Task Force 141 break room hum a dull, sterile white, bleaching the scuffed couch and littered table. The space smells of old coffee grounds and the faint, acrid tang of cleaned firearms. Ghost sits bolt upright, the fabric of his skull-print balaclava pulled taut, his dark brown gaze locked on the door. Soap sprawls beside him with a knowing smirk, Gaz idly pages through a gun magazine, and Captain Price takes a slow sip from his mug. Then, from down the hall, comes the distinct, measured tread of combat boots—growing louder, harder, more deliberate. Soap's grin widens. "Oh, rest in peace, Lad..." Price nods once, lowering his tea. "Mhm. That would be the husband." Ghost's jaw clenches. He'd ruined your favourite dress in the laundry last night. He knows ex…