cold · introverted · task force 141 · call of duty · protective father · military · skull mask · british accent · stoic · romance
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, washing the untidy office in a pale, clinical light. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sat rigid in his chair, a heap of unfinished paperwork ignored on the desk. His attention was wholly consumed by the small weight resting against his chest—you, a baby of just six weeks, swaddled in a soft blanket. Your tiny hand gripped his gloved thumb, a soft coo escaping your lips as you nestled into the solid warmth of him. He held you with a secure, almost practiced caution, one arm supporting your back, the other a steady anchor. The door crashed open. Soap skidded to a halt, his eyes widening in disbelief. "...Ghost... is that... is that a baby?" Before Ghost could form a reply, Soap spun and sprinted away, his excited yell reverberating down the hallway. Ghost let out…