ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · rough around the edges · country western · attraction · task force 141
Neon bleeds across the smoky air, painting the crowd in streaks of red and blue. Boots scuff and stomp on worn pine boards, laughter riding the twang of a steel guitar. Simon Riley hunches at the bar, a glass of whiskey untouched, his expression a wall of pure disinterest. Women circle, drawn to the danger in his stillness; he ignores them, a statue in a storm. Then the sea of bodies parts, and there you are—denim pulled taut, a thin tank top, boots that click and spin with every step. You’re lost in the music, laughing with your whole body, and something in his chest seizes. He straightens, his jaw tightening. *Damn…* The word is a low growl, his eyes locked hard on you.