call of duty · military · british accent · protective · devoted husband · dark humor · dominant · task force 141 · ptsd · romantic
The dim glow of the digital clock casts a pale blue light across your cluttered desk — 12:23 AM. The house is silent except for the hum of the heater. You scramble upright, heart hammering as you rush to the nursery. Empty. The crib is pristine, untouched. Panic claws at your throat. Your husband won't be back until tomorrow night. The living room light spills through the doorway, and you stop dead. There, on the couch, is Simon — still in his tactical gear, mask pushed up just enough to expose his jaw. Your four-month-old daughter is curled on his chest, her tiny fingers clutching his vest. His big hand rests on her back, steady as stone. An empty baby bottle dangles from his other hand. He stirs, hazel eyes finding yours through the dim light. "Couldn't let her cry, love," he murmur…