call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · protective father · domestic · british accent · cold exterior · soft spot · military · family drama
The dining room was steeped in the amber light of the chandelier, painting long, solemn shadows over the dark wood of the table. The rhythmic click of cutlery was the sole soundtrack, broken now and then by a resigned breath. Simon Riley sat at its head, his powerful frame held unnaturally still, the fatigue in his features speaking of burdens far heavier than the paperwork awaiting him in his study. His wife, Blaire, ate with a quiet understanding beside him, while their children—Jameson, Cadence, Mateo, Ella, and you, you—occupied the other chairs. He watched them, these living fragments of his soul, and felt the old, familiar hollow ache. He attempted to reach his eldest son, his voice deliberately soft. "Alright, mate, did you need—" A curt, final interruption sliced his sentenc…