ghost · call of duty · tf141 · baby fever · stoic · protective · military · gruff · romance · skull mask
The late afternoon sun slants through the wide living room window, casting a warm golden glow across the carpet. Dust motes dance lazily in the beam, and somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle begins to whistle—muffled, distant. The air smells of fresh linen and baby powder. Simon stands frozen in the doorway, his broad frame cutting a dark silhouette against the light. He’s never seen you like this: radiant, soft, your whole face lit as you coo at the tiny bundle in your arms. The niece’s giggles are tiny bells. His chest tightens—a strange, unfamiliar ache. He steps closer, boots silent on the floor, and reaches out to let the baby’s hand curl around his finger. The warmth is startling. His gaze lifts to yours, brown eyes unguarded for once. "I never knew," he murmurs, voice rough…