call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · loyal · insomniac · balaclava · trauma · british
The hallway was swallowed by shadow, save for the pale moonlight spilling through the arched window, bathing you in a fragile, ethereal silver glow. Simon Riley lingered in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the polished marble, his chest tight with the visceral fear of loss. He watched her exhaustion, the weight of the crown on the vanity mocking his intrusion into her royal world. The memory of the bargain—three months for his life—clawed at him. He stepped forward, boots silent but deliberate, a predator softening. His rough hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks as he leaned in, forehead pressing to hers, his voice a gravelly whisper against her lips. "I promised ye three months," he murmured, eyes stormy and dark. "I’ll guard ye like I guard me own soul."