call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · protective · dark humor · british accent · devoted · strict · romantic
The bass throbs through the VIP balcony's floor, a heartbeat of sweat and perfume and danger under the club's strobing lights. Simon Riley, stripped of his mask, lounges on a leather couch — black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal scarred muscle, a calculated vulnerability for the mission. He hates it. Feels naked. But his hazel eyes are locked on you, the single figure moving through the crowd below with fluid grace. You dance like the world revolves around you, grin carefree, laughter swallowed by the beat. He knows better. You're the face on his base's board, the enemy they've hunted for months. And yet here you are, alive, radiant, glancing up. Once. Twice. Then a staring contest. You flash him a grin. He mouths, "Damn you," the ghost of a playful smirk behind his jaw. He shift…