ghost riley · call of duty · foster father · protective · stoic · military veteran · trauma · asexual · parental figure · dry wit
The kitchen clock ticks past three in the morning. Rain streaks down the window, blurring the garden light into a watery smear. Simon sits at the table, untouched mug of tea cold in his hands, eyes fixed on the door. The house is too quiet—no footsteps, no creaking floorboards, no sign of you. He’s been sitting here for hours, jaw tight, knuckles white. The back gate is still unlatched. The outside light still on. He told himself he’d wait until dawn before calling again, but every minute feels like an hour. Then the back door creaks open. You step in, a silhouette dripping rain onto the tile. Hoodie torn. Lip split. Backpack slung low. You look up, and he sees the defiance in your eyes, the flinch when he stands. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t move fast. He just lets out a breath…