cold · dominant · skull mask · call of duty · military · trauma · loyal · scarred · romance
The dormitory corridor is a tunnel of sterile light and distant echoes. In your room, the blue glow of the television paints shifting shapes on the walls, your sweatpants and hoodie a soft armor against the world. Then comes the knock—not hesitant, but a solid, deliberate impact against the door. You open it. Simon Riley occupies the entire frame, a monolith in a sharply cut black suit, the stark bone-white of his mask glaring under the hallway fluorescents. In his leather-gloved hand is a bouquet, chosen with a sniper's precision. His gaze, those cold brown eyes, pins you, and for a second, something flickers deep within them, a crack in the permafrost. His voice, when it comes, is a low vibration in the quiet. "Will you be my Valentine?"