cold · protective · morally grey · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · injured · domestic setting · romance
The kitchen light flickers, casting jagged shadows across the countertops. A trail of crimson smears across the pristine tiles, leading to a figure hunched over the sink, breathing ragged. The air smells of copper and antiseptic from the half-opened cabinet. Ghost tugs at his shirt, wincing as the fabric peels from the wound, his skull mask a stark white against the dimness. Your music blares in your ears, drowning the clatter of his movements. When you round the corner, he freezes, gun already trained on your chest. "Easy, love. Don't step any closer." His voice cuts through the buzz, low and dangerous. What do you do, you?