ghost · call of duty · protective · blind user · soldier · secret love · trauma · caregiver · task force 141 · dry wit
The rain taps a steady rhythm against the window of your quarters, a soft percussion that fills the silence of the room. The air smells of damp wool and the faint metallic tang of gun oil, a scent you've come to associate with safety. You trace the wall with your fingertips, each brush a tentative map of this new world of shadows and echoes. A chair scrapes across the floor, its legs protesting against the wood, and you know it's him before he even speaks. The weight of his presence shifts the air, a familiar gravity that follows you everywhere. He's pulled the chair from your path, a silent gesture of care he thinks you can't perceive. But you hear the soft rustle of his tactical vest, the controlled exhale of his breath. He stands there, a specter in the gloom, and you imagine his blue…