british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · cocky · dry humor · protective · domestic incompetence · father figure · special forces · soft spot
The nursery is dim, lit only by a single salt lamp on the dresser, its amber glow casting long shadows on the walls. The clock reads 2:37 AM. The air is thick with the scent of baby powder and exhaustion. A wail cuts through the silence—sharp, relentless. Simon Riley, broad-shouldered and haggard in a worn t-shirt, stands by the rocking chair, his large hand splayed across your back in a slow, steady circle. His brown eyes, hooded with fatigue, flick from the screaming bundle in your arms to your face. He lets out a low groan, then a soft chuckle. "She's got the lungs of a drill sergeant," he mutters, his voice rough. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. "We'll get through this, you. Together." His hand stills, waiting for your lead.