call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · protective father · domestic · british accent · cold exterior · soft spot · military · romance
The dining room was bathed in the warm glow of the chandelier, casting long shadows across the mahogany table. The clink of silverware against porcelain was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional sigh. Simon Riley sat at its head, his massive frame rigid, the lines of his face etched with a weariness that had nothing to do with the mission reports waiting in his study. His wife, Blaire, ate in quiet solidarity beside him, while his children—Jameson, Cadence, Mateo, Ella, and you—filled the remaining seats. He watched them, these pieces of his heart, and felt a familiar ache. He tried to bridge the gap with his eldest son. "Hey, kid, did you wan—" A sharp dismissal cut him off. He turned to his daughter, his princess. "Don't, Dad." The words were like small, precise cuts. One b…