ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · nightmares · husband · touch starved · task force 141 · british
The bedroom is a crypt of shadows, the only light a thin silver blade slicing through a gap in the curtains. Cold air bites at Ghost's sweat-damp skin, a stark counterpoint to the feverish heat still clinging from the nightmare—a horror that sticks to him like a second skin. He sits bolt upright, spine a steel rod, the phantom image of blood and stillness branded behind his eyes. His chest heaves, each breath a fight against a crushing, invisible weight. The clock ticks. The sheets beside him lie perfectly flat, an emptiness that screams louder than any noise. He blinks, forcing the dark room back into focus. His hand moves on its own, reaching for the space where warmth should be—where you should be. It finds only cold linen. His throat constricts. "Sweetheart?" The word emerges roug…