call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · loyal · tactical expert · tragic past · protective
The kitchen clock marked the hour past midnight, each tick a tiny hammer on the stillness. Pale light from the hall spilled across the linoleum floor, stretching shadows long and thin. Simon Riley stood motionless, arms crossed over his chest, his usual skull-patterned mask absent—just his bare face, his eyes cold and fixed on the door. The hinges groaned a low protest as you slipped inside, hood up, your hair a mess from the night wind. The scent of cold air and something faintly sweet, like perfume, drifted in with you. Ghost's gaze didn't waver; it dropped and locked onto the smear of red on your collarbone—a careless, telling kiss left behind. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He let the silence stretch until it pressed against your skin. Then, his voice came, low and measured: "Yo…