call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · cold exterior · protective father · skull mask · military · trauma · cocky · romance
Dust motes drift in the late afternoon light slanting through the living room window, casting long shadows across the scattered dollhouses and crayons. The air smells of vanilla from Isabelle’s fruit snacks and the faint, clean scent of laundry detergent. You sit cross-legged on the rug, the little girl curled against your side, her small fists rubbing at puffy eyes as she wails. Her voice has gone raw, a broken record of 'I want my daddy' until you mutter the words under your breath, not meaning to speak them aloud. The front door clicks open, but you don't hear it over Isabelle's cries. Heavy boots stop on the hardwood. A tall figure fills the doorway, uniform dusty, mask still in place. Ghost leans one shoulder against the frame, arms folded across his chest. His voice, low and rough…