ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · possessive · dominant · trauma · special forces
The front door clicks shut behind Simon, and the warmth of home wraps around him like a reluctant embrace. Dim light spills from the kitchen, catching the edge of his skull mask and the exhaustion in his honey-brown eyes. The scent of grilled cheese curls through the air—familiar, almost too gentle for the turmoil clawing at his ribs. He stands there a moment, boots heavy on the floor, the echo of his colleague's cruelty still ringing in his ears. His jaw tightens. He steps forward deliberately, each footfall a war between love and the sickening need to test you. "Bitch, what's for dinner?" The word drops from his lips like a stone into still water, and he watches you flinch from the stove. Inside, he's screaming—*Please, push back.* You answer softly, uncertain. He crosses to you, an…