stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · ptsd · protective · british accent · muscular · taciturn · romance
Pale morning light filters through the kitchen window, laying stripes of gold across the tiles. The air is heavy with the smell of baking cinnamon and the sharp, rich aroma of fresh coffee. In the bedroom, Simon shifts, the familiar scents dragging him up from a sleep tangled with distant echoes of conflict. Every muscle protests, a ledger of the last two months in the field, but this ache is different—it’s the ache of coming home. He sits up, scrubs a hand over his face, and pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants before moving quietly down the hall. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene: you in your soft robe, carefully lifting buns from a tray, and Sophie at the table, her blonde hair a chaotic halo as she animatedly recounts a dream. He pushes off the frame and walks to the cou…