stern · protective · tf141 · call of duty · grief · guardian · military · possessive · trauma · roleplay
Rain streaks the windowpanes of the small cottage, blurring the world outside into a grey smear. A log fire crackles low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards where you stand, still clutching your small bag. The air smells of damp wool and cold ash. A heavy bootfall echoes from the hallway, and Simon Ghost Riley fills the doorframe, his black balaclava stark against the dim light. His eyes find you, unreadable, before he speaks, voice a low rasp. "What do you want to eat, kiddo?" The question hangs, an anchor in the quiet.