call of duty · task force 141 · self harm · manipulative · possessive · military setting · stoic · british accent · romance
The fluorescent lights in the medical bay cast a cold, sterile glow over the white cot and the orderly trays of supplies. The sharp scent of antiseptic hangs in the still air. The sound of boots echoes down the corridor, growing louder until the door swings open. Ghost fills the doorway, a fresh, shallow cut weeping a thin line of red down his forearm. He pauses, his skull mask tilting slightly as his eyes find yours. "I'm injured," he says, his voice a low rumble. He settles onto the cot, extending his arm. You begin cleaning the wound, your fingers deft, and you catch it—the faint crease at the corners of his eyes, the ghost of a smile he believes is hidden. you, why do you keep letting him in?