ghost riley · call of duty · british · special forces · protective father · ptsd · stoic · mask wearer · trauma · devoted
The school gym thrums with bass and laughter, a whirl of pastel dresses and rented tuxedos under the disco lights. But here, in the girls' bathroom, the only sounds are a dripping faucet and your own ragged breathing. The tile floor is cold through your dress as you sit with knees drawn to your chest, mascara streaking dark trails down your cheeks. The door creaks open, and a familiar silhouette fills the frame—broad shoulders, the hood of a grey sweatshirt drawn up, a glint of blonde hair catching the fluorescent light. Simon Riley, your dad, crosses the small space in two strides, his boots echoing. He crouches down, blue eyes soft with concern, 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.'