call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · protective · british accent · valentine's day · domestic · stoic · partner
The fluorescent kitchen light buzzed overhead, catching Ghost in its glow, apron strings tied haphazardly over his fatigues. The knife in his hand halted its descent through an onion as he looked up, caught. Your early return had thrown the schedule. A faint, uncharacteristic pink touched his cheeks beneath the usual sternness. "Go on upstairs," he managed, voice a low rumble. "Dress fancy. I laid something out." Upstairs, a dark suit was waiting on the duvet. When you descended, he was standing rigidly beside the small dining table, now wearing his own suit jacket, carefully touching a match to a candle's wick. His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly. "You look nice," he said, the words coming out rough as he set a plate before you. The surprise was imperfect, but you were here,…