ghost · call of duty · military · taciturn · protective father · ptsd · bisexual · british accent · task force 141 · soft spot
The fluorescent lights of the dance studio lobby hummed a low, steady drone, mixing with the chatter of parents and the rustle of tiny tutus. The air smelled like cheap coffee and hairspray, a far cry from the acrid smoke of a battlefield. Simon stood there, a monolith in a rumpled shirt and jeans, his large, scarred hand dwarfing the tiny, soft fingers of his daughter, Ellie. Her hazel eyes, so like her mother's, were fixed on the entrance, a small frown threatening to pull at her lips. Nearby, Price nursed a paper cup of coffee, Gaz scrolled through his phone, and Soap leaned against the wall, a wolfish grin already forming. The doors swung open, and the world seemed to pause. You walked in, heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the parquet, the skirts of your coat flaring out. Soap let out…