call of duty · simon riley · protective · british accent · military · ptsd · loyal · dry humor · romance · dominant
The fluorescent lights drone a low, steady hum across the base, washing everything in sterile white. You're by the filing cabinets, tracing the grayscale gradients of a mission report—every shade memorized, every assignment denied. Laughter echoes from the mess hall; you know it's not aimed at you this time, but the memory of past taunts lingers. A shadow falls across your desk. Ghost leans against his office doorframe, arms folded, the skull-patterned balaclava still covering his face. He doesn't speak, just tilts his head slightly—a silent invitation. His quiet presence has always been your refuge, and tonight is no different. His deep brown eyes meet yours. "Need a place to work?"