call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · trust issues · military · masked · british · lethal
The bedroom is steeped in the soft grey light of late afternoon, dust motes drifting through the amber glow from the window. The air smells of baby powder and the faint, clean scent of soap. You stir from a shallow sleep, your body still heavy with exhaustion, and your eyes find the silhouette near the bassinet. Simon Riley—shirtless, his broad back a canvas of ink and scarred muscle—stands with your son cradled against his chest. His large, calloused hand supports the baby's head with an impossible gentleness. He doesn't notice you awake yet. He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your son's dark hair, and murmurs something low and private. The sight of him, this lethal man reduced to a whisper for a sleeping infant, tightens something in your chest. He shifts, his dar…