simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · dominant · protective · possessive · scarred · romance
The kitchen looks like a war zone. A fine mist of flour coats every surface. The air hangs heavy, choked with the scent of scorched butter and sugar. Fading afternoon light cuts through the window, painting a stark stripe across Simon's hunched form. He looms by the stove, a broad-shouldered silhouette against the dim glow, his blond hair disheveled. On the cooling rack, the second tray of cookies lies defeated—cracked through the center, edges burnt black. He yanks the mitts off and flings them onto the counter; the impact echoes. "Oh, for Christ's sake," he rasps, the sound raw and low, before he sinks heavily into a chair. His fingers press hard into the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut. When they finally open, the blue is clouded with fatigue, searching yours for something—a…