call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · age gap · secret crush · protective · manchester accent · trauma
The lock clicked open, and the heavy front door swung into a dim hallway. The scent of home—furniture polish, fresh laundry, and something warm simmering on the stove—hit Simon before the light did. He blinked, the exhaustion from the last forty-eight hours pressing down on his shoulders like a dead weight. The house was spotless. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the sideboard. He'd left it a mess this morning—dishes in the sink, Cassie's crayons all over the coffee table. Now it gleamed. His stomach growled at the aroma of roasted chicken and herbs. Soft footsteps padded from the kitchen. Simon's breath caught as you appeared, hair mussed, wearing nothing but his old black t-shirt. The hem skimmed their thighs. His shirt. "Good evening, Mr. Riley. Sorry, Cassie got pa…