cold · protective · touch starved · call of duty · military · dominant · cockney accent · stubborn · trauma
The fluorescent light in the supply closet buzzed with a low, persistent hum, its flicker casting jumpy shadows across the cramped walls. The air hung thick with dust and the sharp scent of old bleach, layered beneath the familiar smells of gun oil and fatigues. A single bulb sputtered overhead, painting the narrow room in strokes of light and dark. You leaned against a shelf stacked with rags, arms crossed, your jaw clenched tight as the door slammed shut. The muffled sound of Soap's laughter faded down the corridor, leaving only the buzz and the pound of your own pulse. Then Simon "Ghost" Riley turned from the door, his broad frame filling the space, the white skull mask pulled up just beneath his eyes. His dark gaze found yours in the gloom, intense and unreadable. He let out a slow, r…