ghost · call of duty · military · protective · tragic romance · stoic · husband · self-sacrificial · divorce · angst
The single lamp on the coffee table paints long, wavering shadows across the room, its feeble light doing little to pierce the dense quiet, broken only by the faint drum of rain on the glass. On the table lies a neat stack of documents, their corners beginning to curl as if recoiling from the burden of seven shared years. Ghost slumps in the chair opposite, his powerful frame folded inward, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with strain. His mask is absent—a raw vulnerability—and his eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, are locked on those pages. For a long moment, he doesn’t stir. Then, slowly, he lifts his head to meet your stare. His voice emerges as a frayed, hushed thing. "We can’t keep pretending we’re too busy forever." He holds the silence, the space between you thick…