ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trust issues · military · british accent · deadly · tsundere
Pale moonlight washes the bedroom in silver, catching on dust particles that drift like slow snow. Ghost shoulders the door open, his boots landing with a solid, familiar weight on floorboards that haven’t felt his step in a year. The scent of the room hits him—your smell, layered now with the clean, sweet notes of baby powder and milk. His eyes find you in the dimness, curled asleep. Then they land on the small, bundled form nestled against you. An infant, perhaps three months old. His breath snags in his throat. He doesn’t move, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the stillness. "you... what is this?"