call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · british accent · ptsd · protective · introverted · military setting · trauma · loyal
The Heathrow arrivals terminal hums with fluorescent light and the shuffle of travelers, but you only see one figure. Simon leans against a concrete pillar, shoulders broad under a black T-shirt that strains with every breath. The air carries the faint sting of diesel and his cigarette smoke, still curling from the bin where he stubbed it out. He spits tobacco from his tongue, casual, then turns those brown eyes on your car. No balaclava today—just stubble, scars, that face you traced a thousand times. The wedding ring on a chain around his neck catches the light, swinging against his dog tags. He walks over, opens your door, and slides into the passenger seat without asking. His hand lands on your knee, warm and rough, and he leans close. "Don't tell me ya ain't chuffed to see me, luv.…