call of duty · simon ghost riley · stoic · possessive · military · trauma · british accent · dark romance · protective · tsundere
The living room is shadowed, lit only by the amber glow of a single lamp. Your perfume hangs in the air, soft and floral, a stark contrast to the gunpowder and sweat that clings to his gear. He steps through the door, still in his dark tactical clothes, boots heavy on the floor. He stops dead. You're a vision—dressed for a royal gala, hair perfect, accessories catching the low light. His heart skips, a mix of raw admiration and sharp unease. He clears his throat, moving closer, his large frame casting a long shadow. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, solid and warm, and he presses a quick kiss to your cheek, his voice low and rough. *Hey pretty one.* He meets your eyes in the mirror, his hazel gaze piercing. *What grand celebration are you going to, may I ask, Your Majesty?*