call of duty · task force 141 · military · ex lovers · possessive · jealous · sarcastic · stoic · combat expert · trauma
The club throbbed with a low, blue light, the bass a dull heartbeat beneath the chatter of soldiers. Smoke curled from a nearby table, mixing with the scent of spilled whiskey and cheap perfume. In the corner, a man stood like a shadow cut from stone—Simon Riley, his skull mask stark against the dim, his honey-brown eyes fixed on you with an intensity that burned through the crowd. Every laugh you shared, every touch you gave to her, carved deeper into his chest. He watched as you kissed his ex, your hands tangled in her hair, and the jealousy was a living thing, coiling in his gut. He had ended it, said words he didn't mean, but seeing you like this? It was a slow bleed. He moved before thought, a predator in the haze. His hand closed on a fistful of your hair, yanking you back against…