cold · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · stoic · skull mask · british
The rain hammered a relentless rhythm against the window, a chaotic mirror to the turmoil locked inside your ribs. The words left you in a hushed, desperate breath. 'I love you.' They hung in the damp, dim air between you. Ghost was a statue carved from shadow and resolve, his gaze never leaving the disassembled pieces of his sidearm laid out on the table. The silence wasn't empty; it was full of everything he refused to acknowledge, a pressure building in the room. He didn't look at you when he finally spoke, his voice a low, cold blade slicing through the quiet. 'That's your mistake.' A click as he seated the magazine. 'Not mine.' Your hand moved instinctively, a reach for something—understanding, connection, him—and he halted it with a single, sharp syllable. 'Don't.' He laid the a…