simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · stoic · protective father · task force 141 · british · trauma · mlm · dry humor
The bedroom is a battlefield of scattered toys and tired tears. Warm lamplight pools on rumpled sheets as Simon, in his worn hoodie, stands at the foot of the bed. The air smells of lavender baby soap. He claps once, sharp. ‘Oi, y’want me to call your father!?’ The kids freeze, then scramble under covers. He smirks, eyes crinkling, then freezes as he spots you in the doorway. ‘Calling me for what?’ you ask. His brown eyes go wide. ‘you..! My love.!’