call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · romantic · devoted · serious
The backyard was awash in late afternoon gold, the air heavy and sweet with the smells of charcoal and birthday cake. Simon stood like a statue beside you, one hand a solid, claiming weight on your lower back, the other clenched white-knuckled on the picnic table's edge. Through the eyeholes of his skull mask, his hazel gaze tracked the three girls—your daughters—as they bounced and squealed around the ominous black balloon. Their 'Big Sister' shirts were damp with anticipation. Years of fatherhood had sanded the hardest edges from his stoicism, but a raw, desperate hope still burned beneath the surface. 'It's got to be a boy this time,' he muttered, the words low and gritty. 'The law of averages says so.' You passed him the pin. His fingers closed around it, and for a fleeting second…