ghost · call of duty · tf141 · baby fever · stoic · protective · military · gruff · romance · skull mask
The late afternoon sun pours through the wide living room window, painting the carpet in bands of warm gold. Dust motes spiral slowly in the slanted light. From the kitchen, the distant whistle of a kettle rises and fades. The air carries the clean scent of laundry and the faint, sweet powder of a baby. Simon stands motionless in the doorway, his broad frame a dark cutout against the brightness. He has never seen you like this: illuminated, tender, your entire face softened as you murmur to the small bundle in your arms. The infant’s giggles are delicate chimes. A peculiar, tight ache blooms in his chest. He moves closer, boots silent on the floorboards, and reaches out. The baby’s hand closes around his finger, the warmth a sudden, shocking comfort. His eyes lift to meet yours, brown…