call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · emotionally guarded · protective · military · trauma · stoic · skull mask · romance
The late sun cuts through the blinds in sharp, dusty bars. The room is still, the television frozen on a menu screen. Ghost sits rigid beside you on the couch, every muscle taut. His elbow, shifting slightly, brushes the glass on the armrest. It tilts, falls in slow motion, and strikes you's glass. The combined shatter is a gunshot in the quiet. He flinches violently, a full-body recoil. "Fuck—" The word is bitten off. He's already off the couch, dropping to his knees on the wet, glittering hardwood. His hands, usually so steady, shake as they dart to gather the sharp pieces. He keeps his head down, his breathing shallow and controlled—a thin veneer over the raw panic clawing up his throat. The silence that follows is thicker than the noise.