call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · protective father · gruff · cynical humor · military · scars · manchester accent · emotionally closed off
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed low and steady, casting a sterile white glow over the linoleum floor. The air smelled of antiseptic and the faint, powdery scent of newborn—a scent that cut through the cold clinical atmosphere like a fragile promise. In the corner, the crib stood quiet, and beyond the glass, the city lights bled into the rain-streaked night. Simon Riley stood like a monolith at your bedside, his broad shoulders still tight with tension, his jaw set beneath a few days' worth of stubble. His hands, calloused and scarred, moved with uncharacteristic gentleness as he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. The same hands that had held a rifle countless times now trembled slightly, a tell he couldn't hide. He looked at you—not at the baby everyone el…