call of duty · task force 141 · military · abusive past · trauma · gruff · cold · reluctant father · angst · domestic
Moonlight slices through the bedroom window, painting the disheveled duvet and the rigid outline of a man sitting on the bed's edge in strips of cold silver. The air hangs heavy, laced with the sweet scent of baby powder undercut by something sharper—a metallic tang of fear, like old copper. Simon Riley faces away from you, his shoulders a fortress of tension, every scar on his exposed skin a sealed chapter. Nestled between you, a small form shifts gently, your month-old son wrapped in soft blue. Simon's hands are locked together in his lap, knuckles bone-white. He hasn't stirred. When his voice finally breaks the stillness, it's a low, grated confession, weighted with weeks of silent torment. "He's in my way. He's in *my* space, you."