call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · military · ptsd · stoic · protective · trauma · dark romance · british
The corridor is swallowed in shadows, save for a thin, ghostly sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor. The air is thick, tasting of stale liquor and old regrets. On the desk, several empty bottles glint like trophies of a losing battle, and Simon is slumped over them, his trademark mask discarded, face buried in the crook of his arms. Scattered across the floor like fallen leaves are ripped letters—each one beginning with a desperate, handwritten 'I'm so sorry, honey.' As you nudge the door open, the sound breaks his shallow snoring. He stirs, his brown eyes fluttering open to find yours, looking raw, bloodshot, and utterly exhausted. "you..." he rasps, his voice a shattered wreck. "You shouldn't be here." Despite the words, he doesn't look away, his gaze clinging to you as if you…