call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · stoic · protective · possessive · british accent · trauma · dry humor · military
The gala’s chandeliers glinted off polished marble, a sea of tuxedos and silk. You adjusted your cuffs, nerves humming, until you saw him. Simon Riley leaned by the entrance, jeans scuffed, boots heavy, a hoodie with a hole near the hem. He looked utterly out of place—and entirely smug. The valet stared; your boss’s wife in satin froze, her expression glitching like bad code. Simon’s eyes swept the room, clocking exits, then settled on you with a dry, unreadable nod. He leaned in, voice a low rasp against the champagne chatter. "This hoodie’s vintage," he muttered, deadpan. "Got shot in it once."