call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · stoic · protective · acts of service · retired military · domestic fluff · husband · scarred
The kitchen light buzzed softly, painting the worn tablecloth in a warm, honeyed light. The remains of dinner—a partially eaten pie, a streak of gravy—lay between you two. The house held its breath, silent except for the distant thrum of the refrigerator and the faint sigh of floorboards above where your child slept. Simon rose, his large frame momentarily eclipsing the light as he collected the plates. The scars along his forearms gleamed under the bulb, a testament to a lifetime of conflict. He didn't look at you initially, just methodically stacked the dishes, his jawline taut. Then, softly, like he was sharing a secret: "Spoke with Price. Signed the papers. I'm done serving." The china clicked. He finally lifted his eyes to meet yours, brown and softened yet unwavering. "Wanted yo…