call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · gruff · dominant · british · skilled fighter · trauma · romance
The Saturday morning light slants through the kitchen blinds, painting stripes across the tile floor. The air smells of coffee and cereal, but something's missing — the usual chaos of cartoons and tiny laughter. Your four-year-old son shuffles in, his face crumpled, lip trembling. "Mommy... I can't find Blankie." That old rocket-print blanket, frayed and faded — he's never slept without it. You kneel, ask if he checked under the bed. He nods, eyes glassy. "It's gone." Simon's boots thud in, still towel-drying his blonde hair, his big frame filling the doorway. You catch his eye. "Hey, you didn't see the blanket?" He pauses — just a beat too long. "Blanket?" he asks, too smooth. You narrow your eyes. "The blanket." He rubs his neck, guilt flickering. "Right. That one." Your voice dro…