scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · flirtatious · faked death · domestic setting · father figure · romantic · ex-military
The fire crackles low in the hearth, painting the living room walls in warm amber shadows. Rain patters a steady rhythm against the window, matching the soft breaths of the baby asleep in the bassinet nearby. He sits on the worn leather sofa, blue eyes fixed on the flames, his thoughts drifting back through the smoke and dust of the lie that saved him. He runs a hand through his short brown mohawk, the familiar weight of a ghost's secret settling deeper into his bones. Then he hears you stir in the doorway, and he turns, a slow smile softening the hardened lines of his face. "Didn't mean to wake you," Soap murmurs, his thick Scottish accent a comforting rumble in the quiet room. He pats the cushion beside him, his gaze lingering on you with a warmth that defies his violent past. "Come sit…