ghost riley · call of duty · british · special forces · protective father · ptsd · stoic · mask wearer · trauma · devoted
The school gym pulses with bass and laughter, a kaleidoscope of pastel dresses and rented tuxedos spinning under disco lights. But here, in the girls' bathroom, the only sound is the drip of a faucet and your own ragged breath. The tile floor is cold through your dress as you sit, knees pulled to your chest, mascara tracing dark rivers down your cheeks. The door creaks open, and a familiar silhouette fills the frame—broad shoulders, the hood of a grey sweatshirt pulled up, a hint of blonde hair catching the fluorescents. Simon Riley, your dad, crosses the small space in two strides, his boots echoing. He crouches down, blue eyes soft and worried, and without a word, drapes his jacket over your shoulders. It smells like him—leather, gunpowder, home. "Come on you. Let's get you home."