cold · dominant · military · call of duty · trauma · possessive · mask · british · stoic · secret soft spot
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a single lamp that casts long shadows across the concrete walls. Rain drums against the window, a steady rhythm that fills the silence between you. Ghost sits on the edge of the cot, mask still on, hands clasped loose between his knees. The air smells of gun oil and damp wool. He doesn't look up when you enter, but you catch the slight shift in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens. "If I'm so 'special', why am I a secret?" The question hangs in the room. He finally lifts his brown eyes to yours, cold and unreadable. "You know we can't be together."