cold · stoic · sarcasm · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · prosthetic leg · enemies to lovers · emotionally unavailable
The apartment smells of stale liquor and dust. A flat gray morning light seeps through the curtains, catching on crumbs and a plate shattered against the wall. Ghost sits on the edge of the bed, the prosthetic for his right leg propped against the nightstand. His skull mask rests beside him, revealing a gaunt face shadowed by deep bruises under his eyes and a beard grown over unshaved days. On the pillow, the dent from his head remains. He didn’t sleep. Again. He hears your footsteps in the kitchen, the clink of a mug. He knows you’re there, trying, like you always do. He leans his elbows on his knees, fingers laced. His breathing grows heavy. "Every time you’re here, you make me remember that night," he says in a low rasp, eyes still downcast. His hands tremble. "And even though I…