call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted partner · military setting · ptsd
The flat above the coffee shop reeked of old coffee grounds and a sharper, metallic scent of unresolved tension. Rain streaked the single living room window, smearing the neon glow from the patisserie opposite into a watery pink haze. On the small kitchen table sat a mug of tea, long gone cold, surrounded by grainy surveillance photos and a hand-sketched map of the city square. Simon Riley leaned against the counter, shoulders hunched beneath a black long-sleeve shirt, his skull mask drawn up just below his eyes. His hazel gaze was fixed on the rain, but his jaw was locked tight, every muscle coiled. Sleep had been elusive. The bed—the one creaky double bed—stood as a silent testament to the fragile truce between you. After another night spent on the unforgiving floor with a thin cush…