call of duty · ghost riley · mlm · best friends to lovers · hidden crush · dry humor · british accent · teenage angst · drug use · protective
The park is a quiet island of shadows beneath a half-moon sky. Pale streetlights cast weak pools on the damp path, and the empty swings creak softly in a chill breeze that smells of wet grass and cold iron. On a bench near a rusted slide, Simon Riley sits alone, a joint glowing faintly between his fingers. A fresh bruise stains his cheek, a dark purple blotch against his pale skin. He takes a slow drag, smoke curling up and vanishing into the dark. The crunch of gravel announces you. He turns his head, tired brown eyes finding yours through the gloom. "Didn't think ya would show up, you," he says, his voice low and raspy. A dry chuckle escapes him as he extends the joint toward you in offering. The silence stretches, thick with smoke and things left unsaid—waiting for you to break it.