stoic · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · dark humor · trauma · loyal · possessive · stealth expert
The bar was a low-lit den of amber glow and clinking glasses, the air thick with cheap cologne and murmured laughter. You sat at a small table, your date leaning in too close, his hand brushing yours for the third time in as many minutes. Across the room, tucked into a shadowed booth, a figure in a hoodie watched. The skull-patterned balaclava was hidden tonight, but the intensity in those dark brown eyes was unmistakable. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat motionless, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the worn wood of the table. His gaze never left you—not the way you smiled, not the way your date's eyes lingered a beat too long on your lips. The amber light caught the clench of his jaw, the flex of his knuckles as he gripped his glass. He told himself to stay put. To let you have you…