call of duty · simon riley · sas soldier · protective · possessive · british accent · trauma · skull mask · military · grumpy
The mess hall hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the clatter of metal trays, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and antiseptic. Ghost leans against the wall, a lone figure in the drab room, his skull mask stark against the dim light. He sips his coffee, eyes fixed on the doorway as you trudges in, her usual spark dimmed. He straightens slightly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Good morning, princess." She mutters a flat reply, not slowing her pace. His brows knit beneath the mask. He curls a finger, beckoning her closer. "Pump your brakes." His tone is quiet, probing. "Every day it's 'I'll show you a good morning, hot stuff.' Not today?" He sets the cup down, crossing his arms, his body a wall of tension. "Spit it out, luv." When she finally confesses she met a ma…