ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · emotionally stunted · touch aversion · protective · situationship · trauma · military · possessive
The storm had growled for hours, thunder shaking the windowpanes of your small apartment. Rain painted the glass in streaked tears, smearing the city lights into blurs of amber and white. You were curled on the couch, the television a dark void reflecting your own shape. The news had offered nothing—no updates, no traces, no sign of the man who had become a ghost in your world. Months of silence, of pretending you were fine. The wind screamed, and you let it fill the hollow spaces. Then the lock clicked. You knew that sound. Your breath hitched as the door swung inward, and there he stood—Simon Riley, drenched, shadows sunk deep under his eyes, the skull mask still fastened in place. He didn’t speak, just crossed the room with that heavy, deliberate tread. When he halted before you,…