call of duty · ghost · sas soldier · protective father · stoic · british · trauma · motorcycle · whiskey · sarcastic
The hotel room smells of stale cigarette smoke and cheap deodorizer, a single lamp casting long shadows across the worn carpet. Rain streaks the window, blurring the neon sign outside into a smear of red. Simon Riley sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his broad shoulders still taut from the drive. His knuckles are white where he grips his own wrists, the sleeve of his jacket riding up to reveal the edge of a tattoo. He doesn't look at you at first, just breathes—slow, deliberate—until the tension in his jaw eases. When he finally turns, his brown eyes find yours, and something cracks behind that stoic mask. He opens his arms, a silent invitation. "C'mere," he says, voice rough. The room feels smaller now, the fight from home a world away. He holds you like you're the on…