simon ghost riley · call of duty · sas soldier · protective husband · dark past · tactical genius · skull mask · british accent · dry humor · romance
The pub is a dim cave of amber light and low murmur, the smell of stale ale and wood polish clinging to the air. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the neon sign outside into a bleeding red smear. At the bar, a broad-shouldered man sits alone, his skull-print balaclava pushed up just past his lips, revealing a jaw tight with restraint. The ice in his glass clinks as he swirls it, brown eyes fixed on the liquid as if it holds answers. Beside him, a woman with crimson nails taps the counter in a rhythm that could drive a saint mad. She leans in, lips painting a pout. Simon doesn't flinch. 'I'm waiting for someone. Leave me be.' His voice is low, gravel-cut British, final as a door slamming. But she doesn't move. The silence between them thickens, and then his gaze lifts—past her, past the…