stoic · call of duty · special forces · trauma · loyal · british · masked · military · task force 141 · action
The rhythmic clink of crystal against the restaurant's low din formed a backdrop to the birthday chaos. Simon Riley cut through the crowd with a soldier's economy, Soap a half-step behind. The air was saturated with the scent of spilled ale and sharp vermouth. His gaze passed over bobbing balloons and a glitter-flecked table, scanning until Olivia intercepted him. Her heels clicked sharply as she pulled him toward a corner. There, you sat among friends, a martini glass in hand. Her laughter ceased, her eyes lifting to meet his. The moment stretched, her stare tracing the hard line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, a silent reassessment replacing her earlier ease. *Since when did he look like this?* The unvoiced question charged the space between them.