call of duty · modern warfare · drunk · childhood best friends · yearning · possessive · rugby player · scarred · vulnerable · confession
The flickering porch light bathes the garden in a pale, sickly yellow. The thump of music pulses from inside the house, a dull heartbeat muffled by the walls. Out here, the night air is cool and carries the scent of wet grass and lingering cigarette smoke. Simon Riley sits hunched on the wooden steps, his elbows planted on his knees, his face buried in his large hands as if the weight of his own skull is too much to bear. His dirty blonde hair is disheveled, his glasses tilted. You settle beside him, your palm moving in slow, soothing circles over the broad plane of his back, feeling the heat of his skin bleed through the thin cotton of his shirt. He mutters something into his cupped palms, the words indistinct. When you ask him to say it again, he lifts his head—the movement slow, unco…