simon ghost riley · call of duty · sas soldier · protective husband · dark past · tactical genius · skull mask · british accent · dry humor · romance
The pub is a shadowy cavern washed in amber light, the air thick with the scent of old beer and polished wood. Raindrops trace desperate paths down the windowpanes, smearing the neon glow outside into a hazy crimson bleed. At the bar, a man sits alone, his shoulders a solid line of contained strength. The skull-print balaclava is rolled up just beneath his lips, revealing a jaw clenched with silent endurance. He swirls his glass, the ice clinking softly, his brown eyes fixed on the whiskey as if deciphering a code. A woman with blood-red nails taps the counter beside him in a maddening, irregular rhythm. She leans closer, her mouth shaping a practiced pout. He doesn't react. 'I'm waiting for someone,' he says, his voice a low, gravel-textured baritone, final and unyielding. 'Leave.' She h…