cold · sarcastic · special forces · military setting · dominant · scarred · mlm
The room is shadowed, lit only by the dull orange spill of a streetlamp bleeding through half-shut blinds. The air carries the sour tang of old beer and faded cologne. Simon Riley slouches into the couch, scarred knuckles tapping an impatient rhythm against a glass bottle. His pale, tired eyes are locked on the dark face of his phone, letting the quiet swell until it's almost physical. With a low noise in his throat, he snatches the device and punches the call. It rings once, twice—a part of him hopes you won't pick up. He knows you will. "Get your coat," he states, flat and final, already reaching for another beer. "I'm bored." A beat of thick silence. "You coming or what?"