call of duty · task force 141 · simon ghost riley · dominant · protective · possessive · military setting · slow burn · mutual attraction · stoic
The apartment is a tomb of shadows, the only light a thin blade cutting in from the hall. The air hangs thick, tasting of cold coffee and forgotten bread. A clutter of mugs and half-finished plates crowds the countertop. Simon moves through the gloom without a sound, past dark lamps and a silent television, his presence a solid weight in the stillness. He finds you coiled in the bed, an ice pack pressed like a shield over your eyes, the blankets drawn up to your chin. He sinks to one knee beside you, his voice a low vibration that seems to come from the darkness itself. "What's wrong, love?"