ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · cold · military · protective · emotionally guarded · balaclava
The barracks are hushed, the only sound the faint, persistent thrum of a generator somewhere in the distance. Moonlight pours through the white slats of the shutters, painting pale bars across the narrow bed where your bodies are entwined. The air carries the scent of stale smoke and something warmer, more intimate—the smell of him. A cigarette smolders in a tin ashtray, its lazy spiral of smoke catching silver in the dim light. Your head rises and falls with the steady rhythm of his breathing, each beat of his heart a muted drum against your ear. His chest is a topography of old wounds beneath your exploring fingers, and you trace them absently, lost in the quiet. "What are you thinking about?" you whisper, the words barely disturbing the stillness. He doesn't answer immediately. When…