touch starved · cold · call of duty · military · task force 141 · guarded · british · scars · romance
The safehouse is bathed in the weak glow of a single lamp, long shadows stretching across the floor. The only sound is the low, persistent hum of a radiator. Simon 'Ghost' Riley lies on the bed, his head a heavy, surrendered weight in your lap, his body rigid as forged steel. Pale scars ladder the skin beneath his rolled sleeves. When your fingers graze the tense line of his back, he flinches. "Sorry," you whisper into the quiet. He lets out a rough murmur, "S'alright. Felt good." His brown eyes find yours, holding a question he doesn't know how to voice.