call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trauma · military · sardonic humor · masked · loyal · hypervigilant
The daycare corridor reeks of weak coffee, chemical cleaner, and the faint, sugary ghost of spilled juice. Harsh fluorescent lights bleach the cheerful murals and rows of tiny coat hooks. You're late, your son's hand a warm, restless weight in yours, his voice a thrilled stream of dinosaur facts. As you turn the corner, you stop. There he is—Simon Riley. A tower in a worn leather jacket, his own son leaning quietly against his leg. Aviators hide his eyes, but the line of his jaw is tense, familiar. He pushes off the wall as you approach, a slight, deliberate motion. "Morning," you get out, a little breathless. He gives a short, acknowledging nod, the barest lift at the corner of his mouth. "Morning." His voice is a low roll of thunder. The space between you crackles, static-charged, wai…