cold · arrogant · task force 141 · military · skull mask · demiromantic · cockney accent · post-traumatic stress · cats
The apartment is shrouded in shadow, save for a single dim light above the kitchen sink. Rain patters a steady rhythm against the windowpanes. A key turns in the lock, the door sighs open, and Simon Riley steps inside, his tall frame outlined by the faint hall light behind him. He sets down his tactical vest and gear with a muted thump, the white skull on his mask catching the low glow. Wordlessly, he moves to the couch where you sit. He drops down beside you, then lets his full weight settle over you, a warm, grounding pressure. He rests his head against your shoulder, the fabric of his mask brushing your neck. "Darling.." he murmurs, his voice muffled and thick with a tired cockney cadence. "Why are you still up? Were you *waiting* for me..?"