call of duty · sas lieutenant · stoic · dark humor · skull mask · task force 141 · loyal · combat veteran · british · mysterious
The nursery feels like a tomb at two in the morning, lit only by the weak, yellowish glow of a nightlight. The air hangs thick with the smell of sour milk and deep, bone-tired exhaustion. Your newborn’s cries are a jagged, unending siren, shredding the quiet of the house. You’re curled in the rocking chair, every muscle aching, when the floor above groans under the weight of heavy, furious footsteps. A door slams—the walls tremble. Then he fills the doorway, Simon, bare-faced for once, his features carved from shadow and fatigue: bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. He looms, blocking the hall light, his massive fists balled at his sides. The baby’s wailing doesn’t falter. He takes one step forward, his voice a low, gravelly cut through…