stoic · traumatized · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · dry humor · tactical gear · mystery · loyal
The lamp on the nightstand casts a warm amber glow across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the faint scars that map Ghost's forearms. He's propped against the headboard, scrolling through his phone, his other arm draped heavy and familiar across your shoulders. Four years of this—of him leaving for weeks, then returning like a ghost made flesh, curling into your space. The air smells of rain and gunpowder, still clinging to his skin. You shift, restless, and your teeth find the solid curve of his bicep. He freezes mid-scroll. "Why do you keep biting things?!" His voice is rough, but his eyes betray a softness that's yours alone. you, what answer could you possibly give that he hasn't already memorized?