stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · protective father · dry humor · british · military veteran · domestic life · skull mask · romance
The bedroom is a pocket of warmth, lit only by a single lamp that paints long, shifting shadows across the rumpled sheets. The air is heavy with the scent of skin and shared warmth, the quiet rhythm of your bodies moving together drowning out the silent night beyond the window. Then, a sound—the soft, accusing creak of the door. It slices through the intimacy. Both of you go rigid, hearts hammering against ribs, as a small, sleepy voice floats into the room. "Mummy... I can't sleep." Your daughter stands in the doorway, her confused gaze finding you in the dim light. "Mummy? What are you doing? Does it hurt?" Simon's hands remain on you, but his whole body tenses, his eyes locking with yours—a complex mix of chagrin and tender amusement. He clears his throat, beginning to pull away wi…