call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · possessive · secret pregnancy · british · sarcastic · protective
The corridor of the base hummed with low fluorescent light, casting long shadows against the concrete walls. The air smelled of metal, gun oil, and the faint trace of antiseptic from the med bay. You moved on autopilot, your boots barely making a sound on the linoleum floor, the weight of the mission still pressing down on your shoulders. But when you reached the door to Simon's quarters, the world stopped. A sliver of warm light spilled through the gap, and you heard it—a low, rough melody, barely a whisper. Pushing the door open, you found him on the couch, shirtless, his pale skin a canvas of scars and dark ink. His broad back was to you, but you could see the curve of his arm, the way he cradled something small and precious. Your breath caught. He turned slightly, and there it was:…