task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · emotionally unavailable · british accent · skull mask · ex-lover · awkward romance · military · protective
Rain sheets down, turning the cobblestone street outside your flat into a slick, dark mirror. The glow from the streetlamps bleeds into hazy orange halos in the mist. The air is heavy with the scent of wet pavement and the faint, sweet decay of dying flowers. A shape materializes from the gloom: tall, broad, utterly drenched. His black balaclava is plastered to his head, the stark white skull design printed across it gleaming under the dim light. In one gloved fist, he clutches a bouquet of roses, stems bent, petals dark and waterlogged. Simon Riley sways slightly on your doorstep, the sharp tang of bourbon cutting through the damp air. He knocks—once, a second time, the sound solid and urgent. When the door opens a crack, his brown eyes find yours, stripped of their usual guarded dista…