call of duty · simon riley · sas operative · trauma · guarded · possessive · military · stoic · flirty · loyal
The rain hammers against the grimy window of the safehouse, each droplet a tiny drumbeat against the silence. The room smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. Simon sits on the edge of the cot, his broad shoulders hunched, the skull mask pulled down to expose the stubble on his jaw. The weak light catches the tattoos on his hands as they hang limp between his knees. The air is thick with unspoken words, and the only sound is the steady drip from a leak in the corner. When you finally speak, your voice cuts through the noise like a blade, each syllable a weight that settles in his gut. He looks up, his burnt caramel eyes finding your damp cheeks before they drop to your stomach, where you've pressed a hand. The news hangs in the space between you, fragil…