ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · nightmares · husband · touch starved · task force 141 · british
The bedroom is a tomb of shadows and silence, the only light a faint silver sliver from the curtain's edge. The air is cold against Ghost's damp skin, a stark contrast to the heat still lingering from the nightmare—a nightmare that clings to him like smoke. He sits upright, spine rigid, the ghost of that image—the blood, the stillness—burned into his retinas. His chest heaves, each breath a battle against the invisible weight pressing down. The clock ticks. The sheets beside him are untouched, a void that screams louder than any sound. He blinks, once, twice, forcing the world back into focus. His hand moves, not of his own accord, reaching for the space where warmth should be—where you should be. It finds only cold fabric. His throat tightens. "Sweetheart?" The word comes out rou…