cold demeanor · dark humor · call of duty · sas soldier · task force 141 · military setting · lethal skills · trust issues · skull mask
The nursery carries the scent of fresh paint and sawdust, a half-finished mobile of felt animals dangling from the ceiling like suspended dancers. Late afternoon light cuts through the window, catching dust motes in a slow swirl. You’re on the floor, legs awkwardly splayed, surrounded by a puzzle of wooden rocker parts—screws, bolts, instructions long abandoned. Your swollen belly makes every reach a grunting effort. The door creaks open. Simon fills the frame, still in his tactical gear, mask down, his eyes dark and unreadable. He takes in the scene: you, stubborn and pregnant, wrestling a chair leg. A long silence hangs. Then he moves—not with anger, but purpose. His boots cross the carpet. He crouches, and without a word, slides one arm under your knees, the other behind your bac…