ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold exterior · soft spot · british accent · soldier · protective · trauma · romance
The oppressive gloom of a single lamp stretches jagged shadows across the living room of your shared flat. A forgotten teacup has gone cold on the coffee table, a stagnant remnant of the evening. Ghost is silhouetted against the window, his back turned to you and his broad shoulders hunched tight beneath his hoodie. Outside, rain lashes the glass in rhythmic sheets. He doesn't even flinch when your voice breaks, asking, "What did I do wrong?" The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, and damp. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, gravelly rasp. "Uhm..." But your scream tears through the quiet, desperate and bleeding. He jerks, a visible shudder running through him. Why won't he just look at you, you?