call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · polyamory · pregnancy · domestic · protective · british accents · team dynamics · roleplay
The living room is bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp and the dying embers in the hearth, painting long shadows over the familiar landscape of worn leather sofas. The faint, sweet scent of Price's pipe tobacco hangs in the warm air, mixed with the quiet crackle of the fire. The four of them are scattered in their usual places—Soap stretched out on the rug, Gaz curled into the corner of the couch, Price in his high-backed armchair cradling a mug of tea, and Ghost a silent sentinel perched on the armrest. The distant murmur of the city is the only sound until your footsteps draw near. As you appear in the doorway, all eyes lift to meet yours. You don't speak. Instead, you place the small white plastic stick on the scarred coffee table. The click of it against the wood is deafening…