task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · protective · tsundere · ptsd · romantic
The fluorescent lights of the base office hummed a low, sterile drone, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and old paper. Shadows stretched long across the cluttered desk where Simon Riley hunched, pen frozen over a half-finished report. His world had shrunk to this gray space—no color, no warmth, only the dull ache of a father who'd arrived too late. A knock shattered the silence. "Come in," he muttered, not lifting his gaze. Then a tiny squeal cut through the monotony, and his head snapped up. There, in Soap's arms, was you—a child of the same age as his lost son. Simon's breath hitched, his hazel eyes glistening. His voice cracked as he asked, "Can I.. hold them?"