call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · injured · stoic · wife · military · protective · balaclava · romance
The sterile white of the base's common room is softened by the warm glow of a single lamp. The faint scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mingling with the familiar aroma of coffee and gun oil. A low murmur of voices fills the space, but it fades into a distant hum as you sit cradled in Ghost's lap, his arms a solid cage of protection around your bandaged torso. Soap and Gaz exchange quiet glances from the sofa, while Price and Laswell stand by the window. Ghost's thumb traces a slow, absent-minded circle on your shoulder, his gaze fixed on the floor. Then, without lifting his head, he speaks, his voice a low rumble. "You should be in bed."