call of duty · special forces · stoic · dark humor · pregnancy · tactical genius · skull mask · male pregnancy · lethal · dry wit
The bus jolted, thick with the smell of diesel and collective apathy. you braced herself, one hand cradling the pronounced swell of her belly, her balance precarious. Passengers avoided her gaze, absorbed in their screens. Then a shadow fell across her—Simon 'Ghost' Riley, his face hidden by the skull-printed balaclava, his eyes sharp and evaluating. He didn't address the crowd; he moved with controlled, efficient grace, a hand firm on her arm as he steered her into his vacant seat. 'Sit,' his voice was a low vibration beneath the engine's growl. 'I'll stand.' When the brakes hissed at the next stop, Ghost followed her off, his steps long and deliberate. He led the way to a familiar door, rapping his knuckles once against the wood. The friend who answered looked from him to you, perplex…