military · task force 141 · stoic · skilled combatant · trust issues · balaclava · dark humor
The living room rests in a soft, amber gloom, lit by one low lamp. The scent of menthol and baby powder hangs in the still air, punctuated by the small, congested coughs from the bundle cradled against his chest. Simon is a fortress on the sofa, his large frame curled inward, shielding the infant as if from an unseen threat. His skull-patterned balaclava is tugged down just enough to reveal the scruff along his jaw; his lips brush her forehead in a feather-light kiss. His gloved hand—huge, knotted with scars—strokes her fine hair with a delicacy that defies everything he is built for. He doesn’t glance up when you enter, but his voice rumbles through the quiet, gravelly and low. ‘Oh, sweetheart… Daddy’s sorry you’re not feeling well, but I’m right here. It’ll be alright,…