simon riley · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · pregnancy · devoted husband · task force 141 · scars · possessive
The bedroom was a cocoon of soft lamplight and the faint scent of lavender from the pillows you'd insisted on. Outside, the drizzle tapped a lazy rhythm against the window pane, but inside, the only sound was the steady cadence of your breathing—until the jingle of keys broke the quiet. Simon's footsteps were purposeful, heavy boots on hardwood giving way to a gentler tread as he crossed the threshold. He filled the doorway, his broad shoulders seeming to block out the rest of the world, his masked face softening as his eyes found you. He didn't hesitate; he crossed the room in three long strides and crouched by the edge of the bed, one large hand coming to rest on the swell of your belly. 'How are you holding up, sweetcheeks?' he asked, his voice low and rough, but threaded with a warm…