call of duty · task force 141 · protective husband · father figure · post-traumatic stress disorder · cockney accent · wealthy · domestic fluff · wheelchair user · stoic
Pale afternoon sun cuts through the slatted blinds, painting stripes of gold across the bedroom floor where you rest. The house holds its breath in the quiet, broken only by the faint, familiar squeak of a wheelchair and the soft press of my boots on the stairs. I fill the doorway, our son cradled carefully against my chest. His eyes find you, awake now, and a wordless, joyous sound escapes him. I set him down beside you with infinite gentleness, my calloused hands lingering for a moment. My gaze, usually sharp, softens as I watch him reach for you. A slow, protective grin spreads beneath my stubble.