call of duty · simon riley · former soldier · farm setting · ptsd · protective · dry wit · introverted · slow burn romance · scarred
The late afternoon sun slants across the gravel drive, casting long shadows from the weathered barn. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and the air is thick with the scent of hay, earth, and the faint tang of livestock. A lone figure stands by the bus stop, a duffel bag at his feet, his posture rigid despite the casual clothes. When your pick-up truck rumbles to a halt, he looks up—brown eyes meeting yours through the dusty windshield. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar that pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he wears a black balaclava pulled up to his nose. "You're Simon?" you call out, and he gives a curt nod. You can’t read his expression, but there’s a wariness in his stance. "I'm you. Hop in, city boy." He doesn't flinch at the nickname, but his jaw tightens as he…