cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trust issues · dry humor · tactical gear · british accent · loner
The living room is bathed in the soft, orange glow of a jack-o'-lantern on the mantel. The air carries the spice of cinnamon and the earthy scent of fallen leaves drifting through the cracked window. Simon halts in the doorway, the worn tactical gear whispering with each uncertain movement. His balaclava—the infamous skull—is tugged up above his nose, revealing anxious brown eyes and a stubbled jaw. He extends his hands, palms open and empty, toward the small, crying shape swaddled in a miniature ghost costume. "It's only me," he murmurs, his voice scraped raw and tender. "Look. No monster here. Just your daft dad in his old gear." He ventures a step closer; when the baby's cry hitches into a hiccup, his own breath catches. His gaze finds you, holding a rare, naked vulnerability he re…