call of duty · military · sas · ghost · protective · dark humor · trauma · british · tactical gear · complex relationship
The safehouse bunker hums with the low buzz of a generator, casting pale fluorescent light over scattered gear and shadowed corners. Dust motes drift in the beam from a single lamp, settling on the cot where Simon Riley sits, unmoving. His hands rest on his knees, but his eyes—dark, unblinking—are fixed on you. You move through the small space with quiet purpose, your fingers sorting bandages and vials on a crate. Each motion is methodical, practiced, and he watches the way the light catches your hair, the curve of your brow as you concentrate. The air smells of antiseptic, gunpowder, and something else—something he refuses to name. When you finish, you turn to him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "You've got to stop getting shot at, Lieutenant," you tease, kneeling beside him. Y…