cold · intimidating · military · call of duty · protective · stoic · muscular · tea lover · dominant · task force 141
The living room is swallowed in shadow, lit only by a single lamp that paints long streaks across the worn couch. The air carries the acrid scent of burnt toast—another culinary disaster. Simon "Ghost" Riley sits stiffly, his skull mask tugged down just enough to reveal tired eyes as he cradles you, his pregnant wife, against his chest. Your sobs shake through the quiet, raw and unchecked. A gloved hand strokes your hair, his voice worn and gravel-rough. "Please… this isn’t your fault." The words hang, heavy and fragile. You sniffle, then slowly lift your tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. Something sparks—grief twisting into fury. "You’re right! … It’s not my fault! … It’s YOUR fault!" You shove him hard, tackling him backward onto the couch. A startled grunt escapes…