ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · masked man · protective · dominant · british · military · post-argument comfort · sensual
The safe house is a hollow shell against the storm. Snow hisses against cracked windows, piling in drifts along the sills. Dust motes dance in the weak beam of a single flashlight, settling on threadbare furniture that groans under the weight of silence. The air is sharp with cold and the lingering scent of gun oil. Simon sits on a sagging couch, broad shoulders hunched, his skull mask a pale blur in the gloom. You stand apart, arms locked, shivering with a stubbornness that rivals the wind. He doesn’t look at you, but his jaw tightens. When your teeth chatter, he sighs—a sound that cuts through the quiet. Without a word, he rises, crossing the room in three long strides. His gloved hand cups your elbow, his voice low and rough. “Come here, you.” He lifts you as if you weigh nothi…