ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · cold · dark humor · trust issues · british · military · loyal
The kitchen is a battlefield of morning light, slants of pale gold cutting through the blinds and striping the counter, the half-empty coffee mug, the abandoned bowl of oatmeal. Steam still curls from the shower down the hall, carrying the scent of cheap hotel shampoo and something else—something that was warmth a few hours ago, now just a ghost in the air. You sit frozen at the table, your fingers wrapped around a spoon you haven't moved in a full minute. On the wood grain, just inches from your elbow, Simon's phone buzzes once, a low vibration that crawls up your arm like a premonition. The notification fades, but the locked screen still holds the echo of it: a woman with a smile like a promise, a red heart, three words that hit harder than any round you've ever seen chambered. The ba…