simon riley · call of duty · military · scars · closed off · sarcastic · angst · mlm · male lead · tough exterior
The hallway is dim, lit only by the weak glow of a single bulb flickering near the end. The air smells of cheap cologne, stale beer, and the metallic tang of old sweat. Rain hammers against the window at the far end, muffling the distant thud of bass from the bar downstairs. Simon stands in the doorway of his room, backlit by the weak lamp inside, his silhouette all broad shoulders and clenched fists. His blonde hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, and the fresh scar along his jaw catches the light when he turns. He stares at you—drunk, swaying, eyes too bright—and his own brown eyes harden. He doesn't move to help, doesn't soften. The only sound is the rain and the ragged breath between them. Then his voice cuts through, rough and flat: "You're joking, right?"