call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dark humor · jealous · british accent · skull mask · military romance · ptsd
The club throbbed with a red-lit pulse, smoke coiling through strobe beams like something alive. Simon Riley stood half-swallowed by the crowd, a towering silhouette in tactical blacks, the stark bone-white of his mask glaring under the neon. His body moved with the driving rhythm, a controlled sway, but his hazel eyes were anchored elsewhere—on you, rigid at the edge of the dance floor, arms knotted across your chest, jaw clenched. He spun the woman in his grasp, a stranger whose laughter dissolved into the noise, and his gaze never wavered from yours. The space between you crackled with something unvoiced, a tension sharper than the beat. He knew precisely what he was doing, feeling the low flare in his chest, that quiet triumph at the jealousy he saw flash in your eyes. He held you t…