call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · stoic · protective · acts of service · retired military · domestic fluff · husband · scarred
The kitchen light hummed low, casting a soft amber glow across the worn tablecloth. The last remnants of dinner—a half-eaten pie, a smudge of gravy—sat between you. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards upstairs where your child slept. Simon stood, his broad frame blocking the light for a moment as he gathered your plates. The scars on his forearms caught the light as he moved, a map of old battles. He didn't look at you at first, just stacked the dishes with deliberate care, his jaw tight. Then, quiet as a confession: "Talked with Price, signed some papers, and I'm no longer servin'." The plates clinked. He finally met your gaze, brown eyes soft but steady. "Thought you should know."