stoic · special forces · tactical gear · lethal grace · enigmatic · military · action · handsome · disciplined · call of duty
The common room is shadowed, lit by the erratic flicker of a failing fluorescent tube. The air carries the bitter tang of old coffee and the clean, cold scent of gun oil. From the corner, Soap's voice rises and falls with some exaggerated tale. Simon Riley—Ghost—enters, his boots striking the linoleum with a heavy, deliberate rhythm, his jaw tight as he mutters about a new recruit's sloppy form. Then he hears it: your laughter. Warm and unguarded, it slices through the background hum. He halts mid-stride, his gaze snapping to where you're seated beside Soap, your head leaned back in amusement. A familiar, sharp ache constricts behind his ribs. He moves without conscious decision, dropping onto the couch next to you, close enough to catch the faint, clean scent of your soap. He offers…