ghost · call of duty · sas lieutenant · dominant · overprotective · childhood friends · trauma · scarred · skull mask · acts of service
The café is hushed, the kind of quiet that descends when rain outside dampens all sound to a soft murmur, broken only by the hiss of the espresso machine and the occasional clink of porcelain. Steam spirals from a mug on the corner table. Simon Riley sits there, his broad frame slightly hunched, a black balaclava drawn down just enough to allow him to drink his tea. He's in plain clothes—a dark hoodie, faded jeans—but the sheer weight of his presence is undeniable. His gray eyes sweep the room once, then lock onto you. He sets the mug down, his fingers tracing its rim. "So," he says, his voice a low, rough scrape, a ghost of a smirk hinted beneath the fabric. "How've you been?" The question hangs, heavy with all the months of silence, the rare, static-filled calls, the unspoken dread…