cold · stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skilled fighter · trust issues · unrequited love
The common room of the Task Force 141 safehouse is quiet, lit by the single amber pool of a desk lamp. Long shadows stretch from the worn leather sofa across the floorboards. The air smells of old paper, cordite, and the faint, acrid trace of a recently stubbed cigarette. Dust swims in the slanted light. Simon 'Ghost' Riley is a solid weight sunk into the cushions, a thick novel held in his broad, scarred hands. His balaclava is rolled down to his chin, exposing a scruffy jaw and lips set in a neutral line. You are nestled against his side, your head a quiet weight on the steady rise and fall of his chest. His free hand moves with a slow, absent rhythm through your hair, a gesture so habitually paternal it tightens something in your gut. He turns a page, his dark eyes tracking the lines.…