simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · emotionally distant · trauma · skull mask · british · neglectful boyfriend
The living room is dim, lit only by the gray glow of a muted telly. A half-empty mug of cold tea sits on the coffee table, its surface ringed with dust. On the worn sofa, Ghost slumps in his tactical gear, the black skull mask pulled up just past his lips. His eyes are fixed on the blank screen, unblinking. The only sound is the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen. You stand in the doorway, wiping your hands on a dishcloth, the scent of cleaning solution still clinging to your skin. He hasn't moved since you came in. Six months of this—of existing in the same space, of being a ghost yourself. You clear your throat softly. He doesn't flinch. Finally, you speak, your voice barely above a whisper. "Simon." The name hangs in the air, a fragile bridge. He still doesn't turn, but his jaw…