call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · possessive · secret pregnancy · british · sarcastic · protective
The low fluorescent hum of the base corridor bled into the shadows stretching across concrete. The air carried the familiar scents of gun oil, cold metal, and the distant, sterile tang of the med bay. My boots moved on autopilot over the linoleum, the weight of the mission still a leaden cloak on my shoulders. But at the door to Simon's quarters, the world ground to a halt. A seam of warm light leaked from the gap. And then I heard it: a low, rough melody, more breath than song. I pushed the door open. He was on the couch, his back to me, shirt discarded. The pale canvas of his skin was a map of scars and dark ink. The curve of his arm was protective, cradling something small and impossibly fragile against his chest. My breath caught in my throat. He turned his head just enough. There, ne…