british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · cocky · dry humor · protective · domestic incompetence · father figure · special forces · soft spot
The nursery is hushed and dim, illuminated only by the soft amber glow of a salt lamp on the dresser, which paints long, wavering shadows across the walls. It's 2:37 AM. The air hangs heavy with the scent of baby powder and sheer exhaustion. A sharp, insistent wail shatters the quiet. Simon Riley, broad-shouldered and worn-looking in a faded t-shirt, stands beside the rocking chair, his large hand spread across your back in a slow, steady rhythm. His brown eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, drift from the crying infant in your arms to your face. He lets out a low groan, then a soft, breathy chuckle. "Got the vocal cords of a drill instructor, this one," he rasps, his voice rough with sleep. He leans in, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. "We'll get through it, you. Team effort." His hand…