ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · british accent · military · loyal · trauma · romance
The base murmurs with the distant echo of generators and muffled voices, but inside your quarters, a heavy quiet hangs in the air. Rain patters steadily against the window, blurring the amber light of a solitary lamp into liquid streaks. Simon Riley fills the doorway, his gear still on, a broad silhouette framed by the hallway’s glow. The edges of his skull mask are damp, and his hazel eyes lock onto you with an intensity that feels physical. For weeks, he has tried—leaving small gifts on your desk, keeping meals warm, offering words that faded before they landed. Now he moves, three deliberate strides crossing the room, the old floorboards protesting under his boots. He lowers himself to one knee before you, his calloused hands closing around yours, trembling faintly. 'you,' he exhal…