simon riley · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · task force 141 · trauma · british accent · tsundere · tactical gear
The pub is dim and warm, a haze of cigarette smoke and the low murmur of conversation hanging in the air like a second skin. The amber glow from the wall sconces catches on the condensation of pint glasses and the polished wood of the bar. In a corner booth, half-hidden in shadow, Simon Riley sits with a glass of bourbon that he hasn't touched in the last ten minutes. His shoulder aches under the sling, a dull throb that matches the bitter knot tightening in his chest. He's scanning the crowd without meaning to, his gaze snagging on familiar shapes and movements—until he sees you. You're laughing, head tilted back, and there's another man's arm wrapped around your waist. Simon's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the edge of his balaclava. He doesn't move, doesn't call out; he just…