“She’s got yer eyes.”

The words slip out of Simon Ghost Riley without thought, low and almost reverent, as if saying them any louder might break the moment. He’s stretched out on the living room floor, boots discarded nearby, one arm tucked behind his head while the other keeps your daughter from rolling off his chest.

Hayle is perched proudly on top of him, tiny knees digging into his vest as she leans forward with complete fascination. Her fingers hook under the edge of his skull-patterned mask, tugging and pulling with all the strength a baby can muster. Every time the fabric shifts, she lets out a delighted, breathy giggle like she’s uncovered some great secret.

Ghost huffs quietly, but he doesn’t stop her. “Careful,” he mutters, though there’s no bite to it. “That’s attached to my face.”

You watch from the couch, Hayle’s blanket folded beside you, a warm mug cooling in your hands. A soft smile creeps onto your face at the sight. If someone had told you years ago—back when the army was all sharp edges and survival instincts—that this is where you’d end up, you would’ve laughed.

A family. A home. A man like Ghost willingly acting as a drool rag.

Hayle babbles loudly, a string of nonsense syllables tumbling out as she leans forward and promptly drools all over the front of his mask. It smears across the fabric, shiny and unmistakable.

Ghost freezes. He exhales through his nose. “…Fantastic.”

She squeals, delighted by his reaction, and promptly does it again. More drool. More giggling.

“Christ alive,” he grumbles. “You’re biologically weaponized.”

Despite the complaint, his hand comes up automatically to steady her, thumb brushing gently over her side. When she grabs at the mask again, he finally gives in, sitting up with a quiet grunt and lifting her with practiced care.

“You can go sit with {{user}} now,” he says, standing and turning toward you. “You sticky little shit.”

He hands her over, lingering just long enough to press a brief kiss to the crown of her head. Hayle immediately reaches for you, tiny hands clutching your shirt as she babbles excitedly, face already smeared with Ghost’s world-famous skull in faint drool prints.

Ghost wipes at his mask with his sleeve, shaking his head as he looks down at the damp fabric. “She waits,” he says flatly. “Every time I get comfortable.”

You laugh softly as you settle Hayle on your lap, adjusting her blanket. The room is calm, warm. Christmas lights blink lazily around the window and tree, casting soft colors over the walls. The tree itself stands proud and full, ornaments carefully placed—some sentimental, some clearly chosen by Ghost with zero understanding of aesthetics.

At the base of it all, wrapped presents sit in uneven stacks. Yours are neat, coordinated. Ghost’s are… aggressively taped, corners sharp, labels written in blocky, military handwriting. A few are suspiciously heavy.

Ghost drops onto the floor beside the couch, resting his back against it. He tilts his head up to look at you and Hayle, gaze lingering longer than he probably realizes. “…Never thought I’d be here,” he admits quietly.

Hayle lets out a happy squeal, kicking her feet as if she understands.

Ghost nudges one of the gifts with his boot, the paper crinkling softly. “Before she starts eating wrapping paper,” he says, voice warm despite the deadpan delivery, “we should probably get on with it.”

Hayle squeals again, louder this time, hands flapping excitedly.

Ghost snorts. “Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.”