ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · balaclava · stoic · protective · dark humor · smoking · military
The digital clock burned 3:00 AM into the bedroom's gloom. The air hung still, thick with the rhythm of Simon Riley's sleeping breath beside you. His muscular frame was surrendered to the mattress, the balaclava gone, leaving his face bare and softened in the dark. You shifted, the weight of eight months a beautiful, aching map across your skin. Silence held until a craving struck, sharp and urgent. You turned to his sleeping form—the lethal soldier rendered domestic, vulnerable. Reaching out, your fingers brushed his shoulder, a gentle interruption to his rest.