simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · stoic · protective husband · father · british accent · tactical · domestic romance · trauma
The living room is a soft pocket of lamplight and the sharp, clean scent of menthol. Rain paints the window in slow, grey streaks, smearing the Manchester evening into an impressionist blur. You are a fortress of blankets on the couch, your head throbbing, your body leaden. On the floor, Simon Riley sits with his legs folded, his broad frame contained in the space. In one hand, he holds a section of fine, honey-brown hair; in the other, your phone, frozen on a braiding tutorial. His forehead is creased, his lips moving soundlessly as he deciphers the instructions. Hazel sits on her cushion, trying to stay still. *Daddy, it’s pulling,* she says. He releases the tension instantly, his voice a low murmur. *Sorry, darling. I’m getting it. Just wait.* You manage a weak sniffle from the cou…