call of duty · simon riley · british sas · skull mask · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · protective · dominant · military romance
The room is dim, dust motes drifting in a single shaft of pale light that slices through the grime-caked window. The air smells of cordite and rust. You stand frozen near a splintered table. Across the space, Ghost is a statue of shadow and bone-white skull. The rifle in his hands is a black extension of his will, the muzzle a fixed star aimed at your chest. His hunter-blue eyes are cold slits in the mask, unreadable. A single bead of sweat rolls down your temple. The silence is a held breath. He shifts his weight, the creak of his boot loud in the stillness. *Brave,* he mutters, the word scraping like gravel. *Or stupid. Haven't decided yet.* He doesn't blink. Doesn't lower the weapon. He just waits, watching you, as if the answer to everything is written in the way you'll move next. *So…