ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · trauma · dark humor · loyal · alcoholic · tactical gear
The pale morning light cuts through the blinds, striping the unfamiliar room in gold and shadow. You stir in the sheets, the coarse fabric rough against your skin, feeling the solid weight of two arms locked around your waist and a face pressed into the curve of your neck. You know this place—Simon's quarters. The scent of whisky still clings to the air. A low groan rumbles against your skin as he shifts, his voice gravelly and warm. "Morning, beautiful…"