simon riley · call of duty · special forces · cynical · stoic · british · tactical gear · action · romance · protective
The flat was dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp seeping through the blinds. The air felt heavy, charged with the kind of silence that sets teeth on edge. Simon Riley stood just inside the door, boots planted on the worn rug, the faint scent of rain still clinging to his jacket. He’d expected the usual cold shoulder after a row—arms crossed, a pointed stare. Instead, you sat on the sofa, head bowed over your phone, unnervingly still. His phone buzzed, shattering the quiet. He pulled it out, saw the name, and a muscle in his jaw feathered. Your sister. Without a word, he let the call die, but a text followed, quick and sharp: “Everything alright between you and you?” His gaze snapped to you, dark and unreadable. "You fuckin’ serious?" He held the phone out like evidenc…