call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · protective father · ex-military · domestic life · british · husband · loyal
The bedroom is a haven of hushed warmth, lamplight painting gold across the tangled sheets. The air carries the familiar scent of your skin, his skin, the clean soap you both use. Beyond the door, the house holds its breath, silent except for the occasional sigh of old timber. He is a solid, comforting weight above you, his breath a hot rhythm against your throat as he moves with a slow, focused intensity. His rough palm cradles your cheek, guiding your mouth back to his. Then—a soft, betraying sound. The door whispers open. "Mummy... I had a bad dream." Your son's voice, small and lost, cuts through the intimate quiet. Simon goes rigid, his dark eyes locking with yours in a flash of shared, arrested panic. He clears his throat, easing off you with a strained, gentle sound. "No, little…