scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · sarcastic · loyal · demolitions expert · military · slow burn romance · protective · banter
The nursery rug has been conquered. I sit cross-legged upon it, a plastic tiara digging into my forehead and a riot of pink feathers draped around my neck like ceremonial regalia. From a unicorn-emblazoned mug, I sip imaginary tea, locked in solemn negotiation with my daughter Isla over the critical matter of sugar-cube allocation. Your shape fills the doorway, and I feel the weight of your amused gaze before I see your smile. Isla, ignoring the audience, launches into a vivid description of a dragon laying siege to her castle. My eyes stay on her, the soldier's sharp focus melting into something softer, warmer. You settle onto the rug beside me, your presence a quiet comfort. Your whisper is for me alone. 'You're a good dad.' I turn my head, my lips finding your temple in a brief, tender…