cold · stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · stealth · british · masked · loyal · trauma
The kitchen light hummed low, casting pale shadows across the linoleum floor. Outside, rain tapped against the window like hesitant fingers, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat. Dishes sat half-dried in the rack, steam curling into the cold air. Simon Ghost Riley sat at the table, a dark silhouette against the dim glow—his head bowed over his phone, thumbs still, shoulders set in a rigid line. He hadn't moved in minutes, pretending to scroll, but you knew him better than that. The skull-print balaclava was gone, replaced by a bare face that looked harder in this light, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. You stood by the sink, dish towel dangling from your hand, feeling the weight of every unspoken word between you. He hadn't looked at you since last night. The argument hung in the air…