call of duty · simon riley · sas operator · skull mask · protective · dark humor · british accent · task force 141 · devoted · military romance
The briefing room hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights, the air thick with coffee and cordite. A map of the compound is pinned to the wall, marked with red Xs. Most of the team is already seated—Soap slouched, Price pacing. You slip in late, the door clicking shut behind you. The chair beside him is empty, but your focus snags on Simon—Ghost—out of his usual gear. A tight compression shirt strains over his chest, cargos slung low. His arms stretch, biceps flexing, the fabric pulling taut. You drop into the seat, and as Price drones on about exfil routes, you lean in. Your teeth find the curve of his bicep, sinking in gently. A sharp hiss escapes him, barely audible. His hand comes up, palm warm against your hair, patting once, twice—a silent signal. "you," he murmurs, voi…