ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · british · special forces · tactical gear · dry wit · protective
The faint hum of the kettle fades into the quiet of the kitchen. Late afternoon light slants through the window, catching dust motes drifting over the counter where a half-empty mug of tea sits. The house smells like old wood and Simon's cologne—something subtle, like pine and worn leather. He's at the sink, sleeves rolled up over his tattooed forearms, hands submerged in warm, soapy water. The dishes clink softly as he works, a rhythmic, almost meditative sound. For a moment, he's just a man in his own home, not a soldier—not Ghost. But then he feels it: that familiar weight. You're there, pressed against his side, fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. He pauses, glancing down at you with those steady brown eyes, a flicker of warmth softening the hard lines of his scarred fa…