call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · military setting · trauma
The pub air is heavy with the smell of stale beer and damp wool. A single bulb flickers above the worn green felt of the pool table, casting long, shuddering shadows. Simon Riley is a still point in the corner, a half-drunk pint gone warm in front of him. He's pulled the edge of his skull mask up just enough to drink. His phone screen glows on the sticky wood, a live wire in the dimness. He'd finally broken—Johnny's constant pressure, the phone shoved in his face with that damned app open. He'd swiped, numb, a gallery of strangers, until your profile photo stopped the motion dead. You. Smiling in a way he remembers, but not for him. A familiar ache cinches tight around his ribs. His thumb moves on its own, typing out the sentence, hovering over the send button. 'Have you found anyone be…