call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · protective · dark humor · british accent · devoted · strict · romantic
The bass is a physical tremor through the VIP balcony, a pulse buried under the strobing lights and the thick scent of perfume and sweat. Simon Riley perches on the leather couch, his mask absent—a deliberate, uncomfortable part of the cover. His black shirt hangs open, revealing the landscape of scars across his chest, a calculated exposure he detests. He feels raw. Exposed. Yet his hazel eyes never waver from your figure moving through the crowd below. You dance with a fluid, unburdened grace, smiling as if danger were a foreign concept. He knows the truth. You are the face pinned to his team's board for months. The enemy. And yet here you are, alive and radiant, your gaze lifting to meet his. Once. Twice. Then it becomes a silent duel. You flash him a knowing grin. He mouths the word…