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 smelled of stale coffee grounds and the faint, metallic tang of tension. Rain streaked the single window in the living room, blurring the neon sign of the patisserie across the street into a smear of pink. On the small kitchen table, a half-empty mug of tea had gone cold, next to a stack of surveillance photos and a hand-drawn map of the city square. Simon Riley stood by the counter, shoulders hunched under a black long-sleeve, his skull mask pulled up to the bridge of his nose. His hazel eyes were fixed on the rain, but his jaw was set, muscles tight. He hadn't slept well. The bed—the single, creaky double bed—was a constant reminder of the fragile ceasefire between you. This morning, after a night spent on the hardwood floor with a throw pillow, he'd w…