call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · ptsd · grief · stoic · protective · trauma · military · comfort
The door clicks shut, sealing out the world. The quiet hum of the TV flickers against dim walls, casting shadows that dance over a figure curled on the couch. Ghost stands frozen for a moment, boots heavy, eyes tracing the familiar curve of your sleeping form. The scent of home—dust, coffee, you—fills the air. He sheds his gear silently, each clink a confession of weariness. He lowers himself beside you, head finding the warmth of your lap, lids heavy. "I'm home." His voice cracks, a question hanging in the silence: will you stay?