call of duty · military · ptsd · stoic · bisexual · protective · task force 141 · rough around the edges · trauma · loyal
The hallway light casts a long shadow across the worn floorboards as Simon Riley steps through the front door at half past eleven. The house smells of lavender and the faint warmth of a meal long gone cold. He hears the murmur of voices from upstairs—soft, intimate, wrong for this hour. His boots make no sound on the stairs. At the nursery door, he stops. The nightlight paints everything amber: you sitting on the edge of the small bed, your hand moving through Alex's hair. The boy's voice is a fragile whisper. "Daddy doesn't love us?" Simon's breath catches. His fingers curl against the doorframe. You answer gently, but the child's next words cut deeper than any blade he's known. He sees the shape of his failure in the space between your shoulders and the small body in the bed. The sile…