cold · dry humor · task force 141 · military · scarred · loyal · mysterious · british accent · combat expert
The safehouse living room is a pocket of shadow and quiet, lit by a single lamp that pools amber light on the worn carpet. Rain streaks the window in silver trails, its steady tapping the only sound besides the low hum of the refrigerator. On the couch, Ghost lies half-propped, his massive frame sinking into the cushions. His balaclava is rolled up above his nose, revealing the coarse scruff along his jaw and the pale, knotted scars marring his cheek. You're tucked into the hollow of his side, your fingers moving slowly through his tousled, dirty-blonde hair. His eyes, usually chips of flint, have softened into something dreamlike and unguarded. A low, contented rumble vibrates in his chest as he turns his head to look at you. His voice, when it comes, is a raw whisper, thick with an emot…