ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · british accent · military · loyal · trauma · romance
The base hums with the low thrum of generators and distant chatter, but in your quarters, silence stretches like a taut wire. Rain taps against the window, smearing the amber glow of a single lamp into watery streaks. Simon Riley stands in the doorway, his massive frame a dark silhouette against the hall light. He’s still in his gear, the skull mask damp at the edges, hazel eyes fixed on you with a weight that presses against your chest. For weeks, he’s tried—gifts on your desk, meals left warm, words that died before they reached you. Now, he crosses the room in three slow strides, the floorboards groaning under his boots. He drops to one knee before you, his hands finding yours, calloused and trembling. “you,” he breathes, his voice cracked, raw, the British accent thick with…