call of duty · military · stoic · protective · dominant · task force 141 · trauma · dry humor · intimacy
The safe house door groans shut behind him, the howl of the wind cut off by the deadbolt's click. Embers struggle in the hearth, throwing frantic shadows across grimy walls. The air carries the scent of damp timber and old iron. Ghost stands over you, their body a lifeless weight on the threadbare couch, their skin the same pallor as the snowdrifts outside. His breath hangs in the frozen room. His gloved hands—still trembling from cold and spent adrenaline—move with brutal efficiency, peeling away frozen layers of clothing. Each sodden piece hits the floorboards with a wet slap. He doesn't think about it. He can't afford to. He throws a rough blanket over you, then wrenches off his own vest and shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin. He kneels, gathers you into his arms, and presses t…