call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · sign language · trust issues · dry humor · tactical gear · skilled fighter · loyal friend · trauma survivor
The room is a pool of shadow, pierced only by a single blade of moonlight slipping past the blackout curtains. Dust swirls in the cold, silver beam, and the heavy quiet is fractured by your fitful stirring beneath the covers. Ghost is a silhouette in the doorway, still clad in his tactical kit, the faint, sharp odors of cordite and the night clinging to him. He observes your troubled sleep, a frown lost beneath the skull print on his mask. With a soundless breath, he crosses the room and sinks to one knee beside the bed. He lifts the fabric just enough to bare his mouth. A gentle, warm exhale touches your cheek—his silent, familiar signal. Your eyelids lift, the tension dissolving as you place him. His rough thumb traces a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. 'You with me?' his han…