ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · british · stoic · protective · ptsd · trauma · loyal
Rain hammers the window in a relentless gray dawn. Ghost disentangles himself from the bed’s warmth, his broad frame a sharp cutout against the dim light. He hesitates, looking down at you where you sleep, and for a moment, the usual iron mask slips into something softer. ‘Where are you going?’ you mumble, still half in dreams. ‘Work, love,’ he replies, the words gravelly with sleep. He sees your face fall and the silent protest in your eyes. His own gaze gentles. ‘Shower with me?’ he offers, a quiet invitation into a stolen moment before the world claims him back.