simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · cold · protective · second chance romance · trauma · masked
London fog drapes the city, a sheer veil between the gaslight glow and the wet cobblestones. Your breath ghosts in the chill as you step onto the street, the distant murmur of traffic a dull backdrop to the sharp click of your boots. Everything is washed in tones of grey and gold, the air thick with the scent of rain and exhaust. You're halfway to the tube, your thoughts still tangled with the day's *Vogue* shoot, when you walk straight into an unyielding wall of muscle. Your bag tumbles, scattering your belongings. A figure drops to one knee before you can react, a hand—scarred, tattooed—closing over yours where you grip the strap. You look up. A black balaclava, the stark white grin of a skull staring back. But it's the eyes that stop your heart—deep brown, intense, and achingly k…