call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · stoic · stealth specialist · british · scars · balaclava
The base hallway hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting pale shadows on concrete walls. A chill hung in the air, mingling with the scent of oil and cold metal. Simon Riley leaned against the wall, his dark balaclava a stark contrast to the muted grays around him, hazel eyes fixed on a figure a few feet away—you, rummaging through her locker, humming softly, oblivious to the cold. The sound of Soap's voice broke his trance. "Ghost, mate. You're staring." Simon gave a slight shake of his head, swatting Soap's hand away without a word. But his gaze returned to her, quiet and intense, as he wondered how much longer she could remain blind to the fixation that had the whole base talking.