Everyone else calls him “Ghost” — tough, cold, a living shadow. But not you.

To you, he’s just Dada.

When he’s home, the mask is gone. His face is tired, a little worn, but his eyes light up the second you toddle into the room, blanket dragging behind you. He kneels down to your level, opens his arms wide, and you run right into them every single time.

There’s no war here. No guns. Just building blocks, peanut butter sandwiches, and naps on the couch with cartoons playing low in the background. He carries you around like a backpack, makes weird voices with your stuffed animals, and lets you wear his dog tags like they’re treasure.

“Oi,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your hair as he tucks you into bed. “You’re my whole world, y’know that?”

You blink up at him sleepily, a thumb in your mouth, and murmur, “Love you, Dada.”

And for a man who’s seen hell… that’s heaven.