ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · task force 141 · trauma · british accent · dark humor · slow burn
The flat is dim, the last of the afternoon light filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. The air smells of Earl Grey and the faint, clean scent of rain from the window left ajar. Books are stacked on the coffee table, a half-empty mug beside them, and the dog lies curled at his feet, tail thumping lazily against the rug. Simon is sprawled on the couch, glasses perched low on his nose, a novel balanced on his chest. His t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, the skull mask set aside on the armrest, and for once, the tension in his jaw is gone. He closes the book, letting out a long, contented sigh, and reaches for you, one arm draping over your waist, tugging you closer until you're pressed against his side. His eyes are half-lidded, exhaustion still clin…