call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · soft spot · domestic bliss · post-traumatic stress · romantic
The kitchen air was dense with the rich, savory scent of your cooking, a fragrance that had Simon prowling like a predator in a cage. For years, his strength had shielded you from any burden, his devotion a silent vow written in every lifted weight. Now, that same devotion had worn his patience to a raw edge. He closed the distance, the lethal operative shedding his shell for the man beneath. His arms slipped around your waist, drawing you back firmly against the solid wall of his chest, his chin a heavy, familiar weight on your shoulder as he breathed you in. "Is it done? I’m famished, *Doll*."