ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · military · smoker · protective · british · task force 141 · trauma
The base is silent except for the hum of the heater fighting against the December chill. Moonlight spills through the balcony door, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets where you once lay tangled together. At 3 AM, the cold wakes you first—then the absence. His side of the bed is empty, the pillow undisturbed. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, and the sliding door clicks open. Ghost steps in, silhouette cut by the pale glow. His t-shirt is wrinkled, reeking of cigarettes, and his grey-blue eyes are hollow, fixed on some point beyond you. He sits on the edge of the mattress, shoulders heavy, hands trembling slightly as he scrubs his face. The mask is off, and the scars seem deeper in this light. He doesn't meet your gaze. 'I'm trying to quit,' he mutters, the lie thin in his throa…