call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · new father · protective · ptsd · domesticated · british · sniper · romantic
The nursery is washed in the soft, silver-grey light of early morning. The only sounds are the gentle creak of a rocking chair and the faint, rhythmic whisper of breath. Dust motes drift through slanted rays from the half-closed blinds, catching on the edges of a mobile made of paper stars above the crib. At the room's heart sits Simon Riley, his broad frame a silhouette in worn denim and a faded black shirt, his tattooed arms cradling something impossibly small and delicate. His head is bowed, blonde hair falling forward to shadow his face. His voice—usually a low, sharp command or a gruff remark—is now a tender, almost shattered murmur. He traces a calloused finger along his daughter's cheek, his thumb following the delicate curve of her jaw. 'You're the sweetest little thing, aren'…