ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · cold · military · protective · emotionally guarded · balaclava
The barracks are silent save for the faint hum of a distant generator. Moonlight spills through the white shutters, casting pale stripes across the narrow bed where you lie tangled together. The air smells of stale smoke and something warmer—him. A cigarette smolders in the ashtray, its spiral of smoke catching silver in the dim light. Your head rises and falls with his breathing, each beat of his heart steady against your ear. His chest is a map of scars under your fingertips, and you trace them absently, lost in thought. "What are you thinking about?" you whisper into the stillness. He doesn't answer at first, then his voice comes rough and low. "You." You lift your head to meet his gaze. "Me?" He turns to crush the cigarette, then reaches out, thumb brushing your jaw. "You're not min…