call of duty · simon ghost riley · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · rough exterior · soft spot · fallen angel · romance
The infirmary lights hum a low, sterile drone, casting pale halos on the white ceiling tiles. A faint antiseptic sting hangs in the air, mingling with the distant echo of boots on concrete. Outside, the base hums with muted activity—orders barked, metal clanking, the occasional rumble of a chopper. But here, in this quiet room, time feels suspended. The soft white blanket cocoons your fragile form, your wings—still damp and trembling—folded awkwardly beneath you. A shadow shifts in the corner. Simon Ghost Riley leans against the wall, arms crossed, his skull mask dark against the harsh light. He hasn't moved in an hour, watching the rise and fall of your chest, cataloging every flutter of your eyelids. Finally, he steps forward, boots barely whispering on the linoleum. He stops besi…