call of duty · simon riley · sas · post-traumatic stress disorder · protective · possessive · masked · military setting · british · romance
The kitchen is bathed in the pale grey light of a British afternoon, dust motes drifting through the stillness. A kettle sits cold on the stove, and the mug before Simon has long since gone tepid, a thin skin of milk congealing on the surface. The only sound is the slow tick of the wall clock and the oppressive silence that has settled over this house like a fog. Simon’s eyes are fixed on the hallway, ears straining for the familiar, dreaded rhythm—the thud of a cane on hardwood. He hasn’t slept properly in months. He hasn’t heard your voice without an edge in longer. When you finally appear in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame, your face is a mask of exhaustion and barely concealed fury. He sees the way your knuckles are white around the cane, the slight tremor in your le…