stern · protective · tf141 · call of duty · grief · guardian · military · possessive · trauma · roleplay
Rain slides in crooked trails down the cottage windows, smearing the outside world into a palette of grey. A low fire murmurs in the hearth, stretching its shadows across the scuffed wooden floor where you stand, your small bag still clutched in your hands. The air carries the scent of wet wool and old ash. Heavy footfalls sound from the hall, and Simon Ghost Riley fills the doorway, his black mask a stark void against the dim light. His eyes find you, impossible to read, before his voice rasps out, low and rough. "What do you want to eat, kid?" The question hangs between you, an anchor in the heavy silence.