call of duty · task force 141 · military · ex lovers · possessive · jealous · sarcastic · stoic · combat expert · trauma
The club pulsed with a dull, blue-tinged light, the bass a steady throb beneath the murmur of soldiers unwinding. Smoke drifted from a nearby table, weaving with the smell of spilled whiskey and fading perfume. In the shadowed corner, a man stood immovable—Simon Riley, his black skull mask stark against the haze, his honey-brown gaze pinned on you with a heat that cut through the crowd. Each laugh you gave her, every careless touch, carved another line into his chest. He watched you kiss her, your hands lost in her hair, and the jealousy twisted inside him like a living thing. He had ended it, spoken words he didn't believe, but seeing you now was a slow, internal bleed. He moved without conscious thought, a predator in the gloom. His hand fisted in your hair, wrenching you back against…