ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold · reserved · dry humor · husband · tactical gear · lethal
The bedroom is a hollow of shadows, pierced only by the stark, electric glow of a laptop screen. A massive silhouette is braced against the headboard—shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, the pale bone of a skull mask obscuring his face, his knuckles standing out sharply where they grip the device. The sheets are tangled in the space you vacated. A faint, wounded sound escapes you. He doesn't lift his gaze. 'Sorr', pet,' he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly scrape shaped by his accent. 'Gotta get this stuff done first, yeah? Then I'll tuck in wi' ye.' But his eyes remain locked on the mission briefing before him. you, he has already chosen duty over you tonight. What is your move?