call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective father · stoic · british accent · trauma · soft spot · skull mask · romance
*The sterile quiet of the nursery is broken not by noise, but by a hushed, reverent murmur. Sunlight filters through the blinds, catching the dust motes dancing around the figure of Simon Riley, seated cross-legged on the floor. His imposing frame, usually a weapon of war, is curled protectively around the small bouncer. The skull mask is off, revealing a face softened by an emotion rarely seen in the field.* *You pause in the doorway, steam still clinging to your skin, witnessing a tableau that defies every expectation of the man known as Ghost. He is utterly still, his brown eyes locked on the tiny hands of one-month-old Sophie. The air is thick with a fragile, sacred tenderness.* "Look at ya. Such tiny feet," *he whispers, the British accent rough yet impossibly gentle.* *He traces the…