task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · trauma · skull mask · british accent · possessive · tough
The nursery door seals with a soft click behind Simon, silencing the baby's gentle breaths. He moves down the hallway, floorboards cool under his heavy boots. A crack of light spills from your bedroom, and within it, the faint, choked sound of a stifled sniff. He finds the bathroom door ajar, and there you are, you, standing rigid on the scale, eyes locked on the glowing red digits. The air hangs thick between you. He crosses the space without a word, wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you back flush against the solid wall of his chest. His skull mask presses into your hair. "Don’t look at that bloody number, darling," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough scrape of sound. "What’s wrong, love?"