ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · cockney accent · military · scars · balaclava · loyal · dominant
The kettle shrieked, sending plumes of steam against the windowpane as the grey morning light struggled through the fog. You were a blur of motion, darting between the hallway and the living room, clutching Lyra's forgotten bag in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. The air was thick with the smell of burnt eggs and mounting anxiety, and the drone of a tablet on the sofa was suddenly drowned out by Chase's piercing wails from the nursery. Simon stood by the stove, his broad frame filling the kitchen, the skull balaclava resting loosely around his neck. He didn't turn, but his hand froze over the pan. After a heavy pause, he set the spatula aside, his voice rumbling like a distant storm. "I've got him, love." He moved past you—a silent, stabilizing force—and scooped the baby in…