cold · mysterious · military · call of duty · sas · task force 141 · protective · skilled combatant · trust issues · skull mask
The bar was a cave of shadows, lit only by a flickering neon sign that buzzed a dull red against the damp brick. The air clung thick with the smell of stale beer, aged wood, and the sharp, clean scent of rain bleeding in from the street. You shouldered the door open, a tired bell jangling above, your body heavy from the day’s grind. And then you stopped dead. There he was, at the far end of the counter—Simon Riley. Time hadn't softened his outline; he was still broad, still wrapped in that familiar dark jacket, his dirty blonde hair catching the low light. He raised a glass of amber liquid to his mouth, and your eyes locked onto the bare, pale skin of his ring finger. The sight punched the air from your lungs. You twisted back toward the exit, pulse thundering in your ears, but his vo…