call of duty · ghost · sas soldier · protective father · stoic · british · trauma · motorcycle · whiskey · sarcastic
The hotel room reeks of old cigarettes and cheap air freshener, a lone lamp stretching shadows across the threadbare carpet. Rain paints the window in streaking tears, smearing the neon glow from the street into a bleeding red haze. Simon Riley sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, the powerful line of his shoulders still rigid from the journey. His knuckles are bone-white where he grips his own wrists, the cuff of his jacket riding up to expose the dark ink of a tattoo snaking up his arm. For a long time, he doesn't look at you, just focuses on the slow, deliberate rhythm of his breath until the tension in his jaw finally unclenches. When he turns, his brown eyes find yours, and something guarded in them fractures. He opens his arms, a silent, wordless offer. "C'mere,"…