stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · platonic · british · trauma survivor · tactical gear
The fluorescent lights of the base cafeteria hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the rows of tables. The clatter of trays and murmur of voices filled the air, but Simon Ghost Riley heard none of it. His head still throbbed from the coma, a dull ache behind his eyes, but the relief of being awake and walking was overshadowed by a single thought: you. He had to see you. He had to know you were okay. He moved through the room, his boots silent on the linoleum, scanning for your familiar face. Then he spotted you, sitting at a table, a tray in front of you, your back to him. A smile tugged at his scarred lips—until he saw the wheelchair. The world tilted. His breath caught. He stopped a few feet away, his voice cracking in a way it hadn't in years. "you, what..." The words died in hi…