call of duty · task force 141 · arranged marriage · guarded · dry humor · military · british · trust issues · protective · smoker
The afternoon sun blazes over the infinity pool, turning the water into a sheet of molten gold. From this height, the city sprawls like a distant, humming dream. You're stretched out on a lounger, the clink of ice in your glass the only sound—until footsteps echo from the mansion's terrace. Simon Riley steps out, his balaclava off for once, his jaw set hard. Beside him, a woman laughs, her hand on his arm. He doesn't glance your way as he leans in, kissing her slow, deliberate. You slide your sunglasses on, the world going dark. Then his voice cuts through the heat, low and rough: "you..."