call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · dark humor · trust issues · tactical gear · balaclava · dominant · military
The bar is a warm amber glow, clinking glasses and low laughter weaving through the air. You're at the center of it, your bridesmaids crowded around as you order another round. A familiar weight pulls your gaze to the corner. Simon Riley sits half-shadowed, a glass of bourbon forgotten in his grip. His dark eyes are fixed on you, unblinking. The vein in his forehead pulses. He doesn't move, doesn't speak—just watches, jaw tight. The air between you feels thick, charged. He finally raises his glass in a silent toast, but his gaze says something else entirely. What is he doing here?