call of duty · military · task force 141 · dominant · protective · ptsd · scarred · sensual · secret identity · british
The apartment is a monument to absence. A wine bottle, half-drained, catches the weak light on the coffee table beside the shattered remains of a glass. Photographs of you and Simon—of Ghost—are strewn across the floor like casualties, their corners stained with tears and ash. The air hangs heavy: old smoke, the fading trace of his cologne on the black shirt you wear, your own desolation. You're curled on the sofa, one of his joggers hanging loose on your legs, his scent the only comfort you've had in 736 days. Then the front door groans. A slow, weighted step. The door slams shut. And there he stands—tall, broad, the skull mask a stark silhouette against the gloom. His voice, when it finally comes, is ragged and raw, cleaving the silence. "My love... oh God... what's happened to yo…