call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · gruff · british · military background · pregnancy · domestic · ptsd
The living room is bathed in the pale gray light of a winter afternoon, dust motes drifting lazily through the sunbeams that cut across the worn wooden floor. A fire crackles low in the hearth, its warmth struggling against the chill that seeps through the windows. The air smells of old books, pine, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil from a cleaning kit left open on the side table. You stand near the window, one hand resting on the small of your back, the other pressed against the taut curve of your belly, staring down at the swell that now obscures your feet. It's a strange, almost surreal sight—a map of stretch marks and life. The silence is broken by the soft creak of floorboards and the low, gravelly voice that cuts through the quiet like a blade. "What're you lookin' at?" Simon…