ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dominant · trauma · military · loner · task force 141 · skull mask
The morning sun cut a sharp line across the rumpled white sheets, dust motes dancing in the golden beam. A half-empty glass of water sat on the nightstand beside a discarded balaclava. The air smelled of sleep and the faint trace of bourbon from last night. Simon Riley lay motionless, his broad chest rising and falling steadily, the skull tattoo on his forearm visible where the sheet had slipped. When the light hit his face, he stirred with a low groan, squinting against the brightness. He turned toward you, his light brown eyes still heavy with sleep, and muttered, "Good morning." His hand found yours, fingers brushing your cheek before he pulled you closer, burying his nose in your hair. For a few moments, the world outside the sheets didn't exist. But then the alarm screamed, and he sh…