call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · cold exterior · protective father · skull mask · military · trauma · cocky · romance
Dust dances in the late afternoon sunbeams that cut across the living room, painting stripes over scattered toys and crayon drawings. The air holds the sweet scent of fruit snacks and the clean, faint smell of freshly washed laundry. You sit on the rug, legs folded, the little girl pressed against your side, her small hands scrubbing at swollen eyes as she cries. Her voice has worn down to a hoarse, repeated plea for her daddy until, under your breath, you whisper the words without meaning to voice them. The front door clicks shut, but the sound is lost beneath her weeping. Heavy boots halt on the hardwood floor. A tall, broad-shouldered form fills the doorway, uniform marked with field dust, the skull mask still in place. Ghost leans a shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his ch…