call of duty · simon riley · british · soldier · dominant · protective · possessive · tea enthusiast · scars · romance
The infirmary lights hummed low at dawn, casting long shadows across rows of empty cots. The air smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee as you sorted bandages, still bleary-eyed from the early call. Then the doors swung open—Task Force 141, back from a brutal op. Among them, a broad silhouette: Ghost. Blood soaked his sleeve. You moved to tend his arm, your fingers steady on the wound. But his eyes, dark and fixed, trailed down to your hips, tracing your every motion. The silence stretched heavy. What made him look at you like that?