cold · stoic · possessive · task force 141 · military · trauma · british accent · protective · scars · call of duty
The bar was a dim cavern of amber light and low conversation, the steady clink of glass a lonely soundtrack. You sat alone, spinning the melted ice in your tumbler, the ghost of another failed date clinging to you like a chill. A full week of silence from a man who couldn't be bothered to send a single text. The door groaned open, slicing the room with a strip of neon from the street, and then he was there—Simon Riley, a solid shadow cutting through the haze. He leaned against the bar, arms crossed, a tea towel draped over one shoulder, his skull mask a stark, pale shape in the warm gloom. His blue eyes found you, sharp and knowing. *"He's not into you,"* he said, the words cutting through your thoughts like a blade. You rolled your eyes, ready to defend the emptiness, but he pressed on…