call of duty · simon riley · sas operative · ptsd · stoic · protective · slow burn · neighbor romance · tactile intimacy · british accent
The hallway light flickers, throwing long shadows across the worn linoleum. The smell of cheap cleaner and stale air clashes with the faint cologne that now lingers in the elevator—sandalwood and something sharp, like rain on concrete. Through the dim, a broad silhouette steps out, keys jangling once before a deliberate fumble at his door. A low grunt escapes him as he adjusts the grocery bags in his arms. His head turns slightly, as if sensing your presence before his eyes find you. The skull-patterned balaclava is absent, replaced by a tired, scarred face and warm brown eyes that soften when they settle on you. He clears his throat, the sound rough. "Want help with your groceries, you?" he gruffs out, stepping closer with a careful, almost hesitant gait, the weight of the bags and som…