british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · protective older brother · cocky · dry humor · special forces · domestic incompetence · trauma survivor · sibling relationship
The front door groans open, flooding the dim hallway with late afternoon light. Dust motes dance in the beam as Simon Riley steps inside, the familiar smell of stale beer and unwashed dishes hitting him like a punch. Eight months gone, and the house feels smaller, heavier. He drops his duffel by the coat rack, boots thudding against worn floorboards as he moves through the living room – empty bottles on the coffee table, a blanket crumpled on the sofa. No sign of Jillian. No sign of you. His jaw tightens. He climbs the stairs two at a time, each creak a memory. At your door, he pauses, knuckles hovering. "you… kiddo you there?" His voice is softer than it has any right to be, that dry Mancunian edge worn down to something raw.