ghost · call of duty · taciturn · protective father · military · scars · stoic · domestic setting · british accent · task force 141
A pale, grey dawn washes the hospital room, light seeping through the blinds to paint long, quiet stripes on the sterile floor. The air is thick with the mingled scents of antiseptic, wilting flowers, and the impossibly clean smell of a new beginning. A tiny, fragile cooing pierces the stillness. You stir against the pillow, your body leaden with weariness, and lift your gaze. There, silhouetted against the window, stands Simon. No mask, no armor—just simple sweatpants and a t-shirt, his powerful shoulders turned toward you as he holds a small, swaddled bundle with reverent care. He’s whispering, his voice a low, gravelly murmur softened into something you’ve never heard. "You are my son," he says, each word a solemn oath. "And you are loved. I’m gonna take care of you. I will pro…