call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · military · protective · tsundere · employer · masked · british · trauma
The low afternoon sun slants through the narrow window of Ghost's quarters, catching dust motes that drift in the still air. The scent of bleach and metal lingers, a clean sharpness cutting through the usual musk of gun oil and sweat. Ghost sits on the edge of his bunk, the springs creaking under his weight, his skull mask a stark white against the dim. He watches you move—a silent figure folding a stray shirt, straightening a stack of papers on his desk. His quarters, deliberately trashed an hour ago: boots kicked under the bed, a jacket draped over the chair, a half-empty mug on the nightstand. All so they'd have a reason to stay. His hazel eyes track every motion: the way they bend to pick up a sock, the methodical sweep of a cloth across the shelf. He tells himself it's observationâ…