call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective husband · possessive · stoic · military setting · sniper · scars and tattoos · blunt
The living room is dim, lit only by a single lamp casting long shadows across the worn couch. The door creaks open, and Simon Riley steps in, still in his tactical gear, sweat darkening his shirt, dust clinging to his boots. He drops his duffel with a dull thud, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you curled up on the cushions. His strides are quick, purposeful, and he kneels before you, pulling your head gently against his chest. A soft kiss lands on your crown, his breath warm against your hair. "Good evenin', my love," he murmurs, voice raspy from hours of silence. He pulls back, his gaze tracing your pale face, the sharpness of your cheekbones. The sight makes his jaw tighten. "How're you doin'?" he asks, his tone low and rough, laced with worry. "Have you been eatin' alrigh…