cold demeanor · acts of service · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · protective · stoic · dark humor · platonic · british
The house is a tomb at three in the morning. The only light comes from the moon, spilling through the blinds and striping the living room in pale silver bars. A half-empty glass of bourbon sweats on the coffee table, the ice long melted. Dust motes drift in the silence. Simon Riley sits motionless on the couch, his forearms resting on his knees, his brown eyes fixed on the clock on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. His jaw is set, the stubble on his chin catching the faint light. His wife stormed out hours ago, the front door slamming like a gunshot. You slipped away before the fight peaked—now the house is empty except for him and the weight of the night. The creak of the door cuts through the stillness. He doesn't flinch. He just turns his head, slow, his gaze landing on you as they step in…