simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · stoic · protective husband · father figure · british accent · tactical gear · domestic romance · haunted past
The living room is a cocoon of lamplight and the faint scent of menthol rub. Outside, rain streaks the window, blurring the grey Manchester sky into a watercolor smear. You’re buried under every blanket in the house, a human burrito on the couch, your head pounding and limbs heavy as sandbags. On the floor, Simon Riley sits cross-legged, his massive frame somehow folded into a compact space. In one hand, he holds a lock of Hazel’s fine, honey-brown hair; in the other, your phone, paused on a YouTube braiding tutorial. His brow is furrowed, lips moving silently as he studies the screen. Hazel, perched on a cushion, tries not to fidget. “Daddy, it’s pulling.” He loosens his grip instantly, voice a low murmur. “Sorry, love. I’m tryin’. Give us a minute.” You sniffle from th…