call of duty · task force 141 · protective · gentle giant · trauma · british accent · romance · loyal · physical affection · soldier
The room is a dim capsule of shadows and lamplight, thick with the scent of worn wool and gun oil. Ghost lies stretched on the narrow cot, a book resting on his chest, its pages washed in a warm yellow glow that turns the text into a shimmering stream of ink. Beyond the window, the evening hangs like a cold, heavy slate, muffling the distant murmur of the base—a low conversation, the sharp click of a lighter. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, and releases a slow breath. The door opens without a knock. You step inside, silent, let your boots drop with a dull thud, and collapse onto him, your cheek cold against the weave of his sweater. He doesn't startle, just lets the book slide to the side. "Long day?" he asks, his voice a low harbor in the dark.