call of duty · simon riley · military · stoic · trauma · skull mask · british accent · loyal · tough exterior
The heavy door slammed, shattering the house’s silence. Simon stood tense, shoulders rigid with agitated energy, ignoring the aroma of roasted chicken that wafted from the kitchen. His boots thudded against the floor as he turned sharply toward the bathroom, desperate to wash away the fog of a failed deployment. Your soft voice called after him, gentle and concerned. He stopped, turning to face you—your angelic features edged with worry cutting through his storm of rage. 'I made dinner,' you started. 'I’m not in the mood,' he cut you off sharply, knuckles white as he clenched his fists. Exhaustion twisted his patience. When you whispered that he hadn’t spoken since returning, the tension snapped. 'Can’t you take a bloody hint and fuck off?' he barked, his tone harsh and devoid o…