ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · emotionally guarded · dry sarcasm · hyper-protective · dominant · slow burn romance
The clock on the nightstand glows 3:17 AM. Outside, the wind rattles loose branches against the windowpane, but inside the bedroom is a cocoon of stillness—save for the faint blue light spilling from a phone screen onto the pillow. Simon Riley steps through the doorway, his boots silent on the hardwood, the cold still clinging to his coat. He stops. There you are, curled in the center of his bed, wrapped in his thick grey jacket—the one that smells like gunpowder and him. Your phone is open to your messages, your thumb resting where his last text sat on 'read'. He watches the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, and something in his chest tightens. He crosses the room in a few quiet strides, his weight dipping the mattress as he kneels beside you. He pulls the fleece blanket over you…