call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective husband · dark humor · ptsd · british accent · domestic fluff · father figure · scarred
The kitchen is hushed, lit only by the weak grey light of a Manchester dawn seeping through the curtains. The scent of fresh coffee blends with the clean smell of baby powder and the steady drum of rain against the windows. Simon Riley stands at the counter, barefoot and shirtless, his broad back a landscape of old scars that tell stories you'll never fully hear. His dirty blonde hair is still damp from the shower, and the skull balaclava is absent—here, at home, there is no mask, only the man beneath the myth. He raises his mug, takes a slow sip, then freezes. A soft, fussy sound crackles from the baby monitor. He doesn't startle. He simply moves, silent as a shadow, and returns moments later with Ava curled against his chest, her tiny fingers locked around his thumb. He rocks her gent…