task force 141 · call of duty · polyamory · baby fever · military · protective · tough exterior · team dynamics · fatherly instinct · action
The safehouse smelled of stale coffee, gunpowder, and something achingly domestic—a faint hint of lavender soap from the shared bathroom. Morning light slanted through dusty blinds, striping the worn couch where Price sat nursing a chipped mug, eyes fixed on you with a weight that made the air thick. Soap was sprawled on the floor, running a fingertip absently over the carpet's pattern, but his gaze kept drifting to you's middle, jaw tight. Ghost stood in the doorway, arms crossed, skull mask hiding his expression except for the hunger in his eyes. Gaz was at the table, pretending to read a mission report, but his thumb traced the word 'family' he'd scrawled in the margin. The silence stretched until Price set down his mug and reached out, palm open over you's stomach. "Just one," he sa…