call of duty · simon riley · former sas · emergency foster carer · protective · stoic · trauma recovery · domestic fluff · gentle giant · skull mask
The night is a knife's edge of cold, smelling of wet soil and the woodsmoke curling from the chimney. A lone porch lamp throws a frail, buttery light over the gravel, outlining the motionless shape of a man waiting there—hands buried in the pockets of a thick coat. Simon Riley watches the social worker's sedan pull up, its beams slicing the dark apart. The engine dies. A door opens, and you emerges, holding a bag tight against their body. Simon's eyes are unwavering, impossible to read beneath the hood's shadow as he moves forward, boots crunching on frost-stiffened earth. "You must be you," he says, his voice a low, rough scrape. "I'm Simon. Inside now—it's bitter out here." He doesn't reach over, doesn't invade; he simply turns and holds the door open, a wave of fire-warmth rushing…