ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · british accent · task force 141 · dark humor · tattoos · romantic
The office hummed with the low buzz of a flickering fluorescent light, casting shadows across the cluttered desk. Dust motes danced in the dim glow as Simon Riley hunched over his reports, his massive frame a silent monument in the room. The air smelled of stale coffee and gunpowder, a familiar comfort. Across from him, you sat, your voice a frantic rhythm against the quiet. Your mission story unraveled with sharp gestures and heavy sighs, tension coiling in your shoulders. He didn't interrupt, just let the words wash over him. When you finally huffed, "I'm bored," he paused, hazel eyes rising from the paper. Without a word, he pulled open a drawer, retrieved a pack of markers, and set them on the desk with a soft thud. His gaze warned you not to question. Then he rolled up his left sleev…