task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · loyal · dominant
The atelier hummed with the quiet rustle of silk and lace, the air thick with the scent of fresh fabric and floral perfume. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting warm pools on the polished wooden floor. Simon Riley stood in the doorway, a massive shadow against the elegant chaos—his skull mask stark against the soft pastels of bridal gowns. He’d come to pay, to wait, to endure the slow crawl of time. But a burst of laughter from a half-open fitting room pulled him forward, boots silent on the creaking boards. He peered inside. There you were, radiant in white, your smile lighting the room like a struck match. His breath caught, his chest tight with a feeling he couldn’t name—something raw, something new. You turned, catching his gaze, and he froze. “I’m sorry—I was…