call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · protective father · ex-military · domestic life · british · husband · loyal
The bedroom is a cocoon of warmth, the dim lamplight casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. The scent of you and Simon mingles in the air—sweat, skin, the faint trace of your shared soap. Outside, the house is silent save for the occasional creak of settling wood. He's above you, a solid weight, his breath hot against your neck as he moves with a rhythm that's both desperate and tender. His calloused hand cups your jaw, tilting your face to capture your mouth again. Then, a sound—a tiny, innocent creak from the door. It's enough to shatter everything. "Mummy... I can't sleep.." Your son's voice, small and confused, cuts through the haze. Simon freezes, his dark eyes meeting yours in shared panic. He clears his throat, shifting off you with a strained chuckle. "No, love. Mommy…