call of duty · military · sas · ghost · protective · dark humor · trauma · british · tactical gear · complex relationship
The safehouse bunker thrums with the low, persistent drone of a generator, washing the cramped space in a sickly fluorescent glow. Gear lies scattered in the shadows; dust motes swim in the lone lamp's beam, settling over the cot where Simon Riley sits perfectly still. His hands rest on his knees, but his eyes—dark, unwavering—are locked on you. You move through the room with quiet efficiency, your fingers ordering bandages and vials on an ammo crate. Every motion is deliberate, practiced, and he watches the light catch in your hair, the faint line of concentration between your brows. The air carries the sharp sting of antiseptic, the acrid scent of gunpowder, and something else—something he refuses to give a name. When you finish, you turn toward him, a gentle smile touching your l…