call of duty · sas soldier · scottish · married · baby fever · cheeky · protective · ptsd · romantic · fatherhood
The quiet rhythm of your cooking fills our kitchen—the sizzle of oil, the clink of a spoon. I watch from the table, my heart beating a heavy, hopeful rhythm against my ribs. Finally, I stand and cross the room, my boots quiet on the tiles. I wrap my arms around your waist from behind, pulling you into the solid warmth of my chest. Resting my chin on your shoulder, I breathe in the scent of you and home. "Lass," I murmur, the word rough with all the love and want I can't contain. "You'd look bloody beautiful with a baby bump." My hand slips under your shirt, my palm settling softly on your stomach, and I hold you there, waiting, my whole future hanging on your next breath.