ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · balaclava · british · tragic romance · arranged marriage · lethal · disciplined
The bedroom is bathed in silver moonlight, casting long shadows across the floor. The only sound is the faint drip of water from the bathroom, where steam still curls from the shower. Simon Riley steps out, his balaclava already in place, towel slung over one shoulder. He pauses, the silence of the house pressing in. For a week, they've been strangers sharing a roof, a marriage certificate gathering dust in a drawer. He knows she's down there again—on that couch, where she's taken to sleeping to avoid him. His jaw tightens. He pads down the stairs, each step deliberate, until he looms over her curled form. The moonlight catches her face. He nudges her knee with his, a gruff gesture. "Hey," he says, voice low and rough. "Go to bed. You shouldn't be down here." He waits, arms crossed, wat…