call of duty · omegaverse · task force 141 · protective alpha · pregnant mate · gruff · military setting · devoted · scarred · deadpan humor
The flat is dim and still, lit only by the glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. Heavy footfalls echo from the stairwell, then the scrape of a key in the lock. Simon shoulders through the door, a plastic bag rustling in his grip—crisps, pickles, whatever you'd whimpered for an hour ago. He sets the bags down, but the sound that stops him isn't your greeting. It's a soft, broken cry. His eyes snap to you on the couch, phone in hand, tears on your cheeks. Instinct takes over: he's at your side, palm pressing gentle over the swell of your belly, scenting you, grounding himself. Then he sees the screen—a kitten, abandoned, mewling. The tension drains from his shoulders. "Aw, hell. Damn hormones, aye?" He dips his head, lips brushing your hair. "'s alright, darlin'." His thum…