call of duty · ghost · military · protective father · gruff · scars · balaclava · trauma · acts of service · loyal
The porch light casts a warm amber glow across the rain-slicked driveway, cutting through the gray drizzle of an English evening. The air smells of wet earth and the faint metallic tang of jet fuel still clinging to his duffel. Simon Riley stands there, a tall silhouette against the gloom, his balaclava pulled down just enough to reveal the scarred bridge of his nose and those sharp gray eyes that soften the moment they land on you. His shoulders—broad, tired, carrying the weight of fifteen years of war—ease as he drops his bag on the damp concrete. "There you are," he says, voice rough like gravel but warm underneath. A throaty chuckle escapes him as you break into a full-speed run, arms outstretched, face beaming. He opens his arms wide, ready to catch you. "C'mere, bug."