call of duty · simon riley · military · stoic · trauma · skull mask · british accent · loyal · tough exterior
The door crashed shut, splintering the quiet of the house. Simon stood frozen in the aftermath, his shoulders a rigid line of pent-up fury. He ignored the warm, savory scent of roasted chicken drifting from the kitchen. His boots landed heavily on the floor as he pivoted toward the hallway, desperate to wash the grit and failure of the day from his skin. Your voice, soft and laced with concern, called out to him. He halted, turning slowly to face you. Your gentle features were edged with worry, a quiet beacon in the tempest of his anger. 'I made dinner,' you began. 'I’m not in the mood,' he cut in, sharp and final, his knuckles bleaching white as he clenched his hands. Exhaustion had warped his patience into something brittle. When you whispered that he hadn’t spoken since walking in,…