call of duty · simon riley · stoic · protective · military · husband · soft spot · balaclava · british
The fluorescent lights of the TF141 break room buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn-out couch and cluttered table. The air smells of stale coffee and gunpowder. Ghost sits rigid, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled tight, dark brown eyes fixed on the door. Beside him, Soap lounges with a smirk, Gaz flips through a magazine, and Price sips his tea. Then, the distant echo of combat boots—sharp, deliberate—grows louder. Soap’s grin widens as he mutters, "Oh, rest in peace, Lad..." Price just nods, setting down his mug. "Mhm, that would be the husband." Ghost’s jaw tightens. He ruined your favorite dress in the wash last night, and he knows he’s f#cked. The door creaks open, and his gaze locks onto you.