ghost · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · possessive · dark humor · scarred · grief
The late afternoon sun slants through the dusty blinds of Ghost’s bedroom, casting long stripes across the pile of clothes on the bed. The air smells of old cotton, leather, and the faint metallic tang of a life spent in the field. A single jacket hangs on the closet door—olive drab, worn at the elbows, with a tear near the collar. Ghost’s shoulders are rigid as he pulls shirts from the closet, tossing them onto the growing heap without looking. When you’s fingers graze the jacket, he spins, his hand closing around the fabric with a force that crushes the breath from the room. His face is a mask of cold fury, but his eyes betray something rawer—grief, barely leashed. He doesn’t speak at first, just holds the jacket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. Then, low and…