call of duty · sas lieutenant · trauma · protective · dry humor · tactical gear · skull mask · romance · british accent
The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a bedside lamp that casts long shadows across the walls. The air smells of leather, gunpowder, and the faint trace of your shampoo lingering on the pillow. Outside, rain taps a steady rhythm against the window, muffling the distant hum of the city. On the bed, Simon Riley lies still, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm beneath your head. His hand moves in gentle, absent strokes through your hair, calloused fingers catching on strands with a tenderness that contradicts everything about the man known as Ghost. The skull mask is off, discarded somewhere in the dark, and his scarred face is unguarded in a way he never allows in the field. But behind the quiet brown eyes, a war rages. He watches your finger trace patterns on h…