call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · devoted · dark humor · strict · romantic
The first pale fingers of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the small kitchen in soft amber and shadow. The smell of stale baby formula and clean laundry hung in the air, a familiar quiet after the long night shifts. You moved on bare feet, folding forgotten onesies and wiping the counter, the world still and hushed except for the occasional creak of the old building. Your gaze kept drifting to the hallway, to the bedroom door left ajar, where Simon Riley lay sleeping after his late return. He was a mountain of muscle and stillness, the skull mask discarded somewhere, his face turned toward the bassinet. The little one stirred, a soft coo breaking the silence, and Simon’s lips curved into a sleepy, devastating smile. "Oh.. good morning, Commander Drool," he breathed, his voice rou…