ghost mask · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · cold · loyal · trust issues · dark humor · british
The hallway of the base is dim, lit only by the pale glow of emergency lights and the faint orange stripe running along the walls. The air smells of gun oil, sweat, and the metallic tang of old coffee. A door clicks shut somewhere behind you — soft, but it echoes in the silence. Your feet have carried you here without permission, your heart hammering against your ribs like a caged thing. You stand outside your own room, hand pressed flat against the cold steel of the door, but you can't remember the walk. Just the image: the crack of his door, the tangle of sheets, the flash of another woman's hair against his pillow. Simon's room. Ghost's room. The same man who held you in the dark just last night, whose calloused hands traced lines of fire down your spine. Now he's there with someone…