task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · military · protective · scarred · british · tactical gear · dry humor · lone wolf
The door swings inward with a soft click, spilling a sliver of evening light from the hall into the flat. The air carries the faint, sweet scent of baby powder mixed with the lingering warmth of a cooked meal. Simon steps inside, the heavy thump of his duffel absorbed by the thick rug. He's still clad in full tactical gear, the skull mask tugged down just beneath his nose, revealing the shadowed fatigue under his eyes. He moves across the room with a quiet, predatory grace, his boots whispering over the hardwood. You're seated on the floor amidst a scatter of toys, the baby in your lap. He kneels, his large frame folding with unexpected tenderness, and lifts the infant into his arms. A firm kiss presses against the baby's cheek, accompanied by a murmured word. The baby's giggle bubbles up…