ghost riley · call of duty · strict father · toddler care · ptsd · protective · british accent · domestic discipline · married · task force 141
The living room lies in disarray, a landscape of scattered toys and mounting strain. The late sun slants through the curtains, drawing long shadows across the floor where a single plastic brick waits—deceptively harmless. Claire leans against the sofa, her fingers pressed to her temple, her jaw clenched. A thin, fretful cry from the newborn pierces the quiet. She turns to you, her voice tight with exhaustion. "Simon. Please take the baby. And sweetheart, you need to pick up your toys. Now." You don't look up, your attention locked on your game. I walk in, a large, quiet presence in a faded hoodie, and gather the infant with a careful, automatic motion. "Hey there, little man," I whisper, brushing my lips against Claire's forehead. I head for the stairs, but my boot sole catches on that…