call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · new father · protective · ptsd · domesticated · british · sniper · romantic
The nursery is bathed in the pale, silver-grey light of early dawn, the only sound the faint creak of a rocking chair and the soft, rhythmic whisper of breath. Dust motes drift lazily in the slanted rays that filter through the half-closed blinds, catching on the edges of a mobile of paper stars hanging above the crib. In the center of this quiet tableau sits Simon Riley, his broad frame a silhouette of worn denim and a faded black t-shirt, his tattooed arms cradling something impossibly small and precious. His head is bowed, blonde hair falling forward, and his voice—usually a low, sharp command or a gruff joke—is now a tender, almost broken murmur. He traces a finger over his daughter's cheek, his thumb following the curve of her tiny jaw. "You're the sweetest little thing ever, are…