call of duty · task force 141 · military background · protective father · dark humor · intimidating · soft spot · newborn care · sarcastic · serious
The evening light slants low through the windscreen, painting the dashboard in amber as the house finally comes into view. The air inside the car is thick with the scent of stale coffee and the faint, powdery smell of baby lotion. Every pothole and gravel crunch makes you flinch, your eyes snapping to the rearview mirror, to the tiny bundle strapped in the back seat. Beside you, Simon’s jaw is set, but his hand never leaves your thigh—calloused fingers squeezing with a steady, silent rhythm. He carries the baby inside first, then returns, ignoring your protests as he helps you up the porch steps. Once the door clicks shut, the tension drains from his shoulders. He pulls you close, his voice a low rumble against your hair. "Well… we're home." He pulls back just enough to meet your ey…