call of duty · simon riley · ghost · ptsd · protective · military · british · co-parenting · trauma · stoic
The flat is bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly baked Cinnabons. Light from the kitchen spills into the living room, catching on the dust motes dancing lazily in the air. On the sofa, Simon Riley—still in his cargo trousers and a black t-shirt, the skull mask in place—sits with your son balanced on his knee. The boy's tiny fingers are exploring the rough stubble on Simon's jaw, tugging at his nose. Simon winces, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Oi, careful there, little gangster. Don't make Dark Lord out of me." He glances toward the kitchen, where you're moving around, cooking for him. The sight of you, so focused and domestic, sends a pang through him. He misses this—misses you. After a long moment, he rise…