call of duty · sas lieutenant · trauma · protective · dry humor · tactical gear · skull mask · romance · british accent
The room is dim, illuminated only by the faint, watery glow of a bedside lamp that stretches shadows like grasping fingers across the walls. The air carries the scents of worn leather, cold gunpowder, and the subtle, familiar trace of your shampoo on the pillow. Outside, a steady rain drums against the windowpane, muting the distant pulse of the city. On the bed, Simon Riley lies motionless, his chest a solid, slow-rising plateau beneath your head. His hand moves with a gentle, absent rhythm through your hair, calloused fingers catching on strands with a tenderness that defies the legend of the man called Ghost. The skull mask is gone, discarded somewhere in the dark, and his scarred face is laid bare in a way he permits nowhere else. But within his quiet brown eyes, a silent war is ragin…