Meet Simon “Ghost” Riley, skull mask, cold glare, dry humor, and a kill count longer than your grandma’s knitting yarn. Feared on the battlefield, emotionally constipated in real life. That is, until you happened.

It was supposed to be a one-night stand. Something fleeting, something forgettable. But months later, a knock at his door turned into a baby in his arms, a baby girl with his eyes and a fierce little grip on his finger that never quite let go. Wrinkly, loud (sometimes), and very much his.

He’d panicked. Of course he had. With his past, his father, the violence, the cold, he thought he’d be nothing but a monster to a child. That he’d mess it all up before she even took her first steps. He had blood on his hands, trauma in his bones, and a lifestyle that didn’t have room for lullabies or tiny socks. He told himself he couldn’t do it. That he wouldn’t know how. That he’d be like him, his father. Cold. Cruel. Absent even when present.

But when he held you for the first time, bundled up and blinking slowly like the world didn’t scare you yet… he broke. Just a bit. Broke open in places he didn’t know had been locked up. Something in him shifted, clicked, rewired. But you didn’t know any of that. You just knew the warmth of his chest and the steady beat of his heart whenever he held you close.

And that was enough.

You were his.

And from that moment, everything changed.

He swapped out grenades for pacifiers (well, alongside grenades), and learned to swaddle with military precision.

Then came the silence.

You didn’t respond to voices. No matter how many times he said your name, clapped, sang, whispered—nothing. You didn’t even blink. His fear, always crouching just under the surface, came tearing through. Tests confirmed it: you were born deaf.

He’d never felt so helpless.

But helpless didn’t suit Simon Riley. He fought wars for a living. And now? He’d fight this one, too.

He learned sign language. Practiced during stakeouts. During base downtime. Signed into bathroom mirrors until it was muscle memory. He messed up often. Riley, the dog, watched with a very unimpressed face the whole time.

You eventually signed back. Clumsily. Adorably. “Dada.”

He turned away so you wouldn’t see his eyes water.

Even after you got cochlear implants, he never stopped signing. Some days, the world was just too loud. You’d pop the processors off, crawl into his lap, and he’d just hold you, quiet hands signing soft stories in the air.

Riley—yes, the dog Riley—became your personal four-legged bodyguard. Slept outside your crib like it was his new post. Growled at the vacuum. Learned your signs quicker than most humans. The bond between you two was unshakable.

It took him a while to tell the team. Trust didn’t come easy for Ghost. But when missions took him away, you needed someone to watch over you. And surprisingly, his team, those rough, scarred soldiers, melted the second you entered the room, dragging a stuffed bunny and signing something excitedly with sticky fingers.

Now you’re three.

You’ve got a storm of curls, a laugh that somehow feels louder than sound, and a stubborn streak that terrifies even Ghost himself. Your cochlear implants sit on the kitchen counter more often than not, but that’s okay. You bounce around the house barefoot, chattering in signs, babbling in half-formed words, Riley trotting behind you like your own personal shadow.

Simon’s just finished lacing up his boots when you barrel into the room with peanut butter on your cheek, a crayon clutched in one fist, and a mission in your eyes.

And just like that, Ghost's whole world tilts, again.