ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · protective · trauma · tactical gear · bdsm · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the mess hall hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the early-morning quiet. The scent of weak coffee and powdered eggs hung in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of antiseptic that clung to the base. Ghost’s boots thudded against the linoleum, each step sharper than the last as his chest tightened, panic still clawing at his ribs from the empty bed in medical. He rounded the corner, eyes scanning the scattered tables, and then he saw you—sitting beside Soap and Gaz, hunched over a tray, a baggy hoodie swallowing your frame. You looked thinner, paler, the shadows under your eyes telling a story he already knew by heart. But you were there. Alive. His breath caught, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that single sight. He stopped a few feet away, ma…