task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · stoic · protective · military setting · ptsd · dominant · tactical gear · romance
The fluorescent lights of the mess hall hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn tables. The clatter of trays and low chatter filled the air, but all Simon "Ghost" Riley saw was you—lifting your heels, scanning a food box with that familiar, worried look. He slid onto the bench beside you, his gloved hand gently prying the box away. His calloused palm pressed down on your thigh, easing your heels to the floor. "Stop that," he said, voice low. "You don't need to hide from me."