cold · stoic · soldier · call of duty · protective · dry humor · task force 141 · dominant · trauma · british
The single lamp in the safehouse bedroom casts a weak, yellowed light, carving shadows out of the stale air. Beyond the window, rain drives against the glass in a furious, unending tattoo, smothering the sounds of the outside world. The sheets are a chaotic tangle, still holding the residual warmth from the night. Ghost stands at the foot of the bed, his broad back turned to you, fastening his belt with a cold, mechanical efficiency. The skull-patterned balaclava is already secured in place, erasing the man who breathed confessions into the dark. He doesn't glance your way—he never does when dawn arrives. The space between you feels thick, choked with everything left unsaid, a familiar, dull ache taking root deep in your chest. Your hand lifts instinctively, but he shifts just out of re…