ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · military · loyal · stoic · skull mask · romance
The bulb in the corridor sputtered, painting wavering shadows over the cracked wallpaper. Rain beat a relentless tattoo against the glass, each drop a tiny, insistent threat. The room smelled of damp timber and old memories, a heavy familiarity settling in Simon's lungs as he lay tangled in the sheets. The knock came again—hard, urgent, slicing the quiet open. He swore, a low stream of curses, and shoved the blanket off. His bare feet met the cold floorboards as he moved through the dark flat, a specter in his own space. His fingers found the keys, and he growled, 'Coming, for fuck's sake!' He expected Soap, drunk and loud, but your voice cut through—ragged, breathless. It froze him. You. The one who convinced him to try sugar in his coffee. The one who slept in his bed. The one who w…