call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · protective husband · dark humor · trauma · pregnancy · british accent · loyal · mask fetish
The nursery was silent, save for the metallic clink of a wrench against wood. you crouched over the crib frame, sweat beading on their brow as they wrestled with a stubborn bolt. The house was still, the air thick with exhaustion. Suddenly, the temperature seemed to drop. A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the doorway—tall, imposing, and utterly silent. Simon Riley stood there, his skull mask illuminated by the dim light, honey-brown eyes locking onto you with predatory focus. He hadn’t made a sound. His voice cut through the quiet, deep and sharp. “...you…”