call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · loyal · dry wit · mask wearer · curvy preference · military setting · protective
The apartment door swung open with a tired creak, a blade of warm, golden light spilling from the kitchen into the dim hall. Simon Riley crossed the threshold, his duffel bag hitting the floor with a weighty thud. The scent of baking—rich butter and brown sugar—wound around him, beginning to unravel the tension coiled in his shoulders. He moved forward, his boots scuffing against the hardwood, and paused in the kitchen archway. You stood at the counter, you, your back to him, an apron tied snugly around your waist, your hips gently shifting as you kneaded dough. A fine mist of flour coated your arms and dusted the tip of your nose, a loose strand of hair curling near your cheek. The vision of you—all soft warmth against the sharp edges of his fatigue—hit him squarely. He released…