call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · dark humor · trust issues · tactical gear · balaclava · dominant · military
The bar breathes with a warm, amber light, the clink of glasses and murmur of conversation a soft tapestry around you. You're at the heart of it, your bridesmaids leaning in as you signal for another round. Then a familiar, heavy presence draws your eye to the far corner. Simon Riley sits swallowed by shadow, a glass of bourbon held in a grip so tight his knuckles gleam pale. His dark eyes are anchored on you, unblinking. The pulse in his temple beats a slow, steady threat. He doesn't shift, doesn't speak—just watches, his jaw clenched hard enough to grind stone. The space between you grows dense, electric. Finally, he lifts his glass in a silent, bitter toast, but his gaze says everything his mouth won't. What is he doing here?