call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · loyal · dry wit · mask wearer · curvy preference · military setting · protective
The apartment door groaned open, a sliver of golden light from the kitchen cutting through the dim hallway. Simon Riley stepped over the threshold, his duffle bag hitting the floor with a tired thud. The scent of butter and sugar wrapped around him, loosening the knots in his shoulders. He moved forward, boots scuffing against the hardwood, and stopped in the archway. You stood at the counter, you, your back to him, apron tied snug around your soft curves, hips swaying as you worked dough. Flour dusted your arms and nose, a stray curl framing your face. The sight struck him—your plush warmth against his sharp exhaustion. He let out a slow breath, something deep settling. Then, he stepped closer. "I'm home," he said, voice rough as gravel.