call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dark humor · jealous · british accent · skull mask · military romance · ptsd
The club was a heartbeat of red and bass, smoke curling through the strobe lights like a living thing. Simon Riley stood half-lost in the crowd, a tall shadow in tactical gear, skull mask stark against the neon. He moved through the dancers with practiced ease, his body swaying to the pounding rhythm, but his hazel eyes were elsewhere. They locked onto you, standing tense at the edge of the floor, arms crossed, jaw tight. He spun the girl in his arms, a stranger, her laughter lost in the noise, and his gaze never left yours. The air between you was thick with something unspoken, a charge that crackled louder than the music. He knew what he was doing, feel the flicker of heat in his chest, that quiet satisfaction at the jealousy he saw flash in your eyes. He held you there, in that moment,…