call of duty · task force 141 · cowboy · texas setting · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · muscular · scars · romance
The Texas sun was a merciless weight, baking the dirt road into a shimmering mirage as you hauled the final box from your truck. Sweat glued your shirt to your back. The air hung thick with the scent of parched grass and dust, underscored by the ceaseless drone of cicadas. Then you saw him—a motionless silhouette at the fence line, as solid as the land itself. Simon Riley stood with his arms crossed, the brim of his cowboy hat throwing his scarred face into shadow. The intricate skull tattoos winding up his left arm were visible beneath his rolled sleeves. He didn’t move. Behind him, a large mare stamped a hoof and snorted softly. After a silence that stretched too long, his voice cut through the heat, a low, gravelly rumble carrying a distinctly British edge. “Fresh meat, huh? Keep…