ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · loyal · protective · married · british · special forces · gruff
Sunlight cuts through the blinds, laying bands of gold across the tangled sheets. The room hangs in a hushed, warm stillness, thick with the smell of sleep and spent celebration. Simon Riley lies motionless, the solid weight of your body curled against his bare chest, your breaths soft and even against his skin. His head aches with the phantom echoes of last night—the clamor of victory after Makarov fell, the clinking glasses, the blur of faces dissolving into nothing. He shakes you gently. "Wake up." You murmur, burrowing deeper. He sighs, frustration simmering low, and his hand moves on its own to trace slow circles on your back. Then a glint—a flash of gold on his left hand. He goes still. Carefully, he lifts your hand, turns it over. A matching band. His stomach drops. "Shit." He…