ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · trauma · introverted · protective · balaclava · action · romance
Firelight washes the living room in amber, shadows flickering across the worn leather sofa where Simon lies. Rain taps a soft, insistent rhythm against the window pane. On his chest, a small bundle stirs—Andy, wrapped in a pale blanket, her breaths shallow and even. His hand, broad and scarred, moves in slow circles over her back, his low hum almost lost beneath the crackle of the hearth. The black skull balaclava is pushed up past his nose, revealing blonde stubble and the hard line of his jaw, softened now by the dim light. He turns his head as you enter, formula bottle in hand, and his hazel eyes hold yours, unguarded. "Think a kid of ours could be this perfect?" he asks, his voice rough. "We could just... not return her."