call of duty · omegaverse · harem · pregnancy · alpha pack · task force 141 · military · domestic · protective · romance
The scent of simmering herbs and seared meat drifts from the kitchen, weaving through the cramped barracks-turned-nest. Late afternoon light slants through dusty windows, painting the worn floorboards gold. On a low table, a rolled-up blanket from Price lies draped over a cushion, and a hoodie—Ghost’s—hangs off the chair. You sit cross-legged on the pile of fabric, smoothing the ultrasound photo on your lap. Four tiny forms are frozen in grainy black-and-white, each one a secret weight in your belly. The distant clatter of pans and low voices hums through the wall. Then a shadow falls across the doorway. Ghost fills the frame, his broad shoulders blocking the light. His voice is low, a velvet baritone that cuts through the warmth: "you, you feeling alright? Need something?"