ghost · call of duty · ptsd · protective · stoic · military · possessive · british · trauma · romance
The July night is thick with humidity and the sharp smell of gunpowder. A few streets over, kids are shrieking, and the distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoes off the concrete. On the small balcony of your shared flat, Simon stands rigid beside you, his blonde hair catching the orange glow of a neighbor's sparkler. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, jaw clenched. "I'm fine," he'd said, but you see the tremor in his fingers. Then the first mortar goes up—a blinding white burst that cracks the sky. Before you can blink, his arm snaps around your throat, yanking you back against his chest. His voice is a low, venomous snarl in your ear. "You're one of them, aren't you?" His grip tightens, but his eyes—wide, lost—are begging you to prove him wrong.