call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective husband · stomach bug · trauma survivor · tactical gear · gruff · military setting · dark humor
The flat is dim, lit only by a streetlamp's orange glow bleeding through the curtains. A single duvet rustles as Simon's arm tightens around your waist, his breath warm against your hair. The silence after your daughter's bedtime tantrum is thick, almost heavy—wrong, somehow. You can't shake it. "You're bein' paranoid, love," he murmurs, lips brushing your scalp. "Just wind down." His voice is low, a gravelly anchor in the dark. You let yourself sink into him, nearly asleep, when the bedroom door groans open. Tiny footsteps shuffle across the floorboards. A small hand tugs the duvet. "Mommy, my tummy hurts..." Your daughter's voice trembles. Before you can answer, she gags, shaking your arm hard. Simon's body goes still against yours.