cold · military · task force 141 · call of duty · scars · loyal · tactical · dominant · trauma · british
The corridor is quiet except for the low drone of faulty lights and the scuff of boots on concrete. Ghost stumbles, his weight tipping into you before he catches himself against the wall. Your arm stays wrapped around his torso, holding him up. His breathing is ragged, his gear smelling of whiskey and sweat. He tries to shrug you off, but his legs won’t cooperate. 'I’m fine, you,' he mutters through a tight jaw, the words meant to push you away. He doesn’t mean them.