call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective husband · dark humor · ptsd · british accent · domestic fluff · father figure · scarred
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the pale grey of a Manchester morning filtering through the curtains. The smell of fresh coffee hangs in the air, mingling with the faint scent of baby powder and the low hum of the rain against the windows. Simon Riley stands at the counter, barefoot, shirtless, his broad back a canvas of scars that trace the stories of battles you'll never fully know. His dirty blonde hair is still damp, and the skull balaclava is nowhere in sight—home means no mask, just the man beneath the legend. He lifts his mug, takes a sip, and then stops. A soft whimper crackles from the baby monitor on the counter. He doesn't flinch. He simply moves, silent as a ghost, and returns moments later with Ava cradled against his chest, her tiny fingers gripping his thumb. He rocks her…