cold · stoic · possessive · task force 141 · military · trauma · british accent · protective · scars · call of duty
The bar was a dim haze of amber light and low murmur, the clink of glasses a steady rhythm against the night. you sat alone, twisting the ice in their tumbler, the ghost of yet another failed date lingering in the air. A week of silence from a man who couldn't even bother to text. The door creaked open, letting in a slice of neon streetlight, and then Simon Riley was there—a solid shadow moving through the crowd. He leaned against the bar, arms crossed, a tea towel slung over one shoulder, his skull mask stark against the warm glow. His blue eyes found them, sharp and knowing. "He's not into you," he said, the words cutting through their thoughts like a blade. you rolled their eyes, ready to defend, but he pressed on, his voice low and unyielding. "Forty minutes late. No offer to pick y…