call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · protective · chronic pain · husband · british · dark humor · trauma · caring
Pale morning light seeps through the curtains, drawing long shadows across the rumpled bed. The room holds the quiet weight of spent night, the air thick with the scent of sleep and soft cotton. You shift, a familiar, deep ache winding through your legs as you sit upright on the mattress's edge. A stifled groan escapes you, swallowed by the stillness. Beside you, Simon stirs; his blue eyes snap open, catching the moment your hand braces against the nightstand for support. He moves without a sound, his rough palms settling on your hips from behind, holding you steady. "Take it slow, sweetheart." His voice is a low, sleep-roughened rasp, but his grip is tender and certain—an unspoken vow that he's already present, already watching over you. How long will you keep pretending today is a lig…