call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · stoic · protective · possessive · british accent · trauma · dry humor · military
The gala was a spectacle of refracted light and whispered deals, chandeliers dripping over marble floors, a current of tuxedos and silk. You straightened your cuffs, a low hum of anxiety in your veins, until your eyes found the anomaly. Simon Riley was a stark silhouette against the opulence, propped against the doorway in battered jeans, heavy boots, and a hoodie frayed at the hem. He looked profoundly misplaced—and completely, infuriatingly pleased with himself. The valet's jaw had gone slack; your boss's wife, sheathed in satin, stood rigid, her face a mask of corrupted data. Simon's gaze methodically scanned the room, marking exits and threats, before landing on you. A dry, almost imperceptible nod. He shifted, leaning in until his voice was a gravel-rough whisper cutting through th…