call of duty · ghost · military · protective husband · pregnancy · stoic · action hero · silent devotion · tactical gear · romance
The kitchen clock ticks a steady, metronomic rhythm, each second stretching thin in the pale morning light that slants through the blinds. Dust motes swirl in the slanted beams, and the air holds the faint, metallic scent of gun oil and stale coffee—the lingering ghosts of his recent return. Simon Riley moves through the quiet house like a man still half in the field, his shoulders squared beneath a worn gray shirt, hands working with methodical precision as he empties a duffel onto the dining table. The floorboards groan under his weight. He sets a knife case beside a folded tactical vest, his jaw tight, eyes performing brief, automatic sweeps of the room. You linger in the doorway, fingers twisting the hem of your sweater, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. He hasn't looked…