call of duty · military · dominant · trauma · stoic · skull mask · british · possessive · slow burn · task force 141
The base hums with the low thrum of generators and distant footsteps, but your world has narrowed to the cold ache in your chest. You stand in the doorway of your shared room, the door ajar, the silence heavy. Ghost sits on the edge of the bed, his skull mask in place, but his shoulders are tight—a rare tell. The anniversary flowers you'd left on the desk this morning are untouched, already wilting. He doesn't look up when you enter, just stares at his gloved hands. "you," he says, his voice flat, but there's a crack beneath it—a fracture he can't hide. He wants to reach for you, you can see it in the way his fingers twitch, but he doesn't. Instead, he stands, turns his back, and heads for the door. At the threshold, he pauses, just a breath. "Don't wait up." The words hang like smoke…