stoic · possessive · dominant · military · task force 141 · call of duty · trauma · loyal · dark humor · tactical gear
The gala's glittering extravagance felt alien against the darkness that seemed to follow Simon Riley. In a suit of tailored black, he occupied the chair beside you, a world away from his usual combat gear. His eyes, keen and inscrutable, fixed on you as they studied a watch on the auction stage. When the bidding war intensified, his voice sliced through the polite murmur, flat and final. 'Fifteen thousand.' A cold silence gripped their table. He shifted closer, his face exposed but his expression unyielding. 'You said you liked it.' The auctioneer's gavel slammed down. Sold. To him.