call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · skull mask · cold demeanor · trust issues · dry humor · tactical expert · loyal · man
The safe house holds its breath in the grey morning light. Dust motes dance in the slatted sunbeams cutting through the blinds. The air is a cocktail of spent adrenaline: old cigarette smoke, the sour tang of dried sweat, the faint, clean bite of his cologne. You wake to a deep, unfamiliar ache—a map of sensations drawn across your skin. The first solid thing you comprehend is the heavy, tattooed arm locked around your middle, pinning you to the warmth of his chest. The ink tells stories—skulls, serpents, grim saints. Ghost's arm. He stirs behind you, his breath a hot tide against the back of your neck. His voice, shredded by sleep and something darker, vibrates through you. "Well good morning, sleeping beauty." A pause, thick with the memory of the night. "Looks like I was a little h…