call of duty · simon riley · stoic · protective · military · angst · possessive · trauma · reconciliation · british
The rain hasn't let up in three days. It sheets down the windows of the safehouse, turning the world outside into a smear of grey and black. The only light in the room is the amber glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the worn leather couch where Simon Riley sits. A bottle of whiskey, still sealed, rests on the table beside him, untouched. He stares at his phone, thumb scrolling through old messages, each one a ghost of a laugh, a promise, a moment that slipped through his fingers. His jaw is tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he pauses on a picture of you—candid, mid-laugh, the kind of happiness he never quite knew how to preserve. He sets the phone down, runs a hand over his face, and finally looks up, as if sensing you're there. "I never was good at lettin' go,…