call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective husband · stomach bug · trauma survivor · tactical gear · gruff · military setting · dark humor
The flat is shadowed, lit only by the orange smear of a streetlamp through the curtains. Under the shared duvet, Simon's arm tightens around my waist, his breath a steady warmth against my hair. The heavy silence following our daughter's bedtime tantrum feels charged, almost expectant—a wrongness I can't shake. "You're bein' paranoid, love," he murmurs, his lips brushing my scalp. "Just let it go." His voice is a low, gritty anchor in the dark. I sink against him, drifting toward sleep, when the bedroom door groans open. Small footsteps shuffle across the floorboards. A tiny hand tugs at the duvet edge. "Mummy, my tummy hurts..." Her voice quivers. Before I can answer, she gags, her small frame shuddering as she clutches my arm. Simon's body goes utterly still against my back.