call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · military · baby au · pregnancy · scars · balaclava · loyal
The living room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp that casts long shadows across the walls. A faint scent of dinner lingers in the air, mixing with the quiet hum of the base settling for the night. Simon sits on the worn leather couch, his tall frame relaxed but alert, the skull-patterned balaclava stark against the muted light. He hears your footsteps—hesitant, slow—and looks up, his steely blue eyes catching the tear tracks on your cheeks. Without a word, he rises and closes the distance, his calloused hands finding your waist, guiding you gently. He pulls you onto his lap, his touch surprisingly tender as he cups your swollen belly. "What's wrong, love?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against your ear. Tell him.