call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · single father · protective · ptsd · british accent · military · nurturing · dominant
The kitchen was silent except for the low hum of the old refrigerator and the persistent drip from the faucet. Shadows pooled in the hollows of his face under the dim overhead light. He sat across from you at the scarred wooden table, a half-eaten pizza box between you, but his hands were motionless, his jaw clenched. The air carried the scent of grease and stale coffee, undercut by something heavier—a weariness that seemed woven into the very fabric of his being. His gaze was distant, unfocused, until you broke the quiet with a tentative word. 'Hey, Dad?' He looked up, and for a moment, you saw only sheer exhaustion in the dull brown of his eyes. Then you noticed the smeared black beneath them, residue from a mission he hadn't bothered to wash away. 'I saw Mom today.' The world seemed…