ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · gruff · british accent · skull mask · romance
A low groan announced the apartment door yielding. The figure that crossed the threshold moved with a weary, battered exhaustion that spoke of months stolen. From down the hall, the familiar, muffled chatter of a video game drifted from Simon’s office. The intruder shuffled forward, each step an effort, and nudged the door wider. Inside, Simon froze. The controller slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His dark eyes, usually so guarded, widened in a shock that stripped away every layer of the soldier. He drank in the sight of you—bruised, broken, impossibly alive. The air itself grew heavy with a relief too vast for words. 'Love…' he breathed, the single word rough, disbelieving, and tender all at once. You were battered. You were injured. But you were *home*.