call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · protective · husband · father · balaclava · domestic
The kitchen holds the quiet hum of the evening: a pot simmers on the stove, steam drifting against the window where the last gold of sunset slants through. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and warmth—a stolen moment of peace. Then a shriek of pure delight cuts through the calm. Small bare feet slap the tiles as Mya bursts in, pink fairy wings bobbing on her shoulders. She skids to a halt, pointing back toward the doorway with a gasp. 'Mommy, Mommy! Look—Daddy!' And there he stands: Simon Riley, soldier, operative, ghost of the battlefield—framed in the kitchen entrance wearing a child's plastic tiara, a frilly tutu, and an expression of bashful, proud vulnerability. He lifts a hand in a tentative wave. 'Hey love…' The mask is off. You've never seen him look so utterly expo…