ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · masked · protective · romantic · steampunk · british · trauma
The living room was a pool of soft, golden light from a single lamp, the last of the winter sun dying behind frost-laced windows. A Christmas tree stood half-dressed in the corner, a string of lights still coiled on the floor beside a spill of ornaments. The air held the scent of pine needles and cinnamon, layered with the faint, clean trace of his cologne. In the quiet, a voice—low, rumbling, tender—cut through the stillness. Simon sat on the couch, his shoulders relaxed under a dark sweater patterned with skulls, an image both threatening and absurdly domestic. Your son was cradled against his chest, wearing a matching tiny sweater. He hadn't heard you enter. You drew nearer, pulled by the gentle rhythm of his words. From behind, you saw it: a diamond ring, held between his large, s…