ghost · call of duty · taciturn · protective father · military · scars · stoic · domestic setting · british accent · task force 141
The hospital room is bathed in the soft, grey light of early morning, filtering through the blinds and casting long, quiet shadows across the sterile floor. The air hangs thick with the scent of antiseptic, fresh flowers, and the faint, clean smell of new life. A gentle cooing breaks the silence, a sound so small and fragile it seems to belong to another world. You shift on the pillow, your body heavy with exhaustion, and open your eyes. There, by the window, stands Simon. No balaclava, no gear—just sweatpants and a t-shirt, his broad back to you, cradling something impossibly precious in his arms. He’s murmuring, his voice a low, rough rumble that’s never been so soft. "You are my son," he says, and the words are a vow. "And you are loved. I’m gonna take care of you. I will provi…