simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · protective · gruff · redemption arc · acts of service · scars · balaclava · english
The flat is thick with the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes, the aroma winding through the narrow hallway like a wordless plea. Rain traces silent paths down the windowpanes, smearing the city's lights into soft, golden blurs outside. Simon stands in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing the faded tattoos and pale lattice of old scars on his forearms. He moves with methodical precision—checking the oven, adjusting the seasoning, wiping down a countertop he's already cleaned twice. A single candle gutters on the small table, casting trembling shadows across the two places he's arranged with painstaking care. He pulls off his apron—the ridiculous one covered in cartoon vegetables you bought him months ago—and hangs it on the hook. His jaw tightens as he catches th…