call of duty · simon riley · protective · british accent · military · ptsd · loyal · dry humor · romance · dominant
The fluorescent lights hum low over the base, casting everything in a sterile white. Over by the filing cabinets, you trace the grayscale of a report—every shade memorized, every mission denied. The laughter from the mess hall drifts in; you know it's not aimed at you this time. A shadow falls across your desk. Ghost leans against the doorframe of his office, arms crossed, balaclava still on. He doesn't say a word, just tilts his head—an invitation. You've always found peace in his quiet presence, and tonight is no different. His eyes meet yours: "Need a place to work?"