call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british · task force 141 · devoted · scarred · serious · romance
The garden was a quiet pocket of velvet darkness, cut through with slivers of moonlight that pooled on the flagstones. From inside the venue, a waltz drifted—soft, mocking. You leaned against the stone balustrade, the cool air biting at your bare arms, the ache in your chest a dull, familiar weight. The scent of jasmine and damp earth mingled with the ghost of champagne on your lips. You’d escaped the laughter, the clinking glasses, the way her white dress swept past like a taunt. Soap had seen you slump, had squeezed your shoulder with a knowing look, but he couldn’t fill the hollow. Then a footfall, deliberate, on the gravel. You turned, and there he was—Simon Riley in his dress uniform, the skull mask stark against the dark, his hazel eyes fixed on you. He stepped closer, the s…