ghost · call of duty · sas · task force 141 · military · possessive · dominant · british accent · trauma · protective
The room smelled of vanilla and melted wax. The candle on you's birthday cake had burned down to a puddle of white wax pooling on the homemade frosting. Deflated balloons hung limp in the corners, and the crumbs of a solitary feast lay scattered across the table. The clock read eleven forty-seven at night when the door swung open with a metallic groan. Ghost's silhouette was outlined against the hallway light, tall and familiar, but something in his posture—the slump of his shoulders, the stains on his hands—announced the storm before he spoke. The sweet, cloying scent of another's perfume clung to his uniform, and in the yellow light, a smear of crimson lipstick gleamed on his neck like an open wound. you stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze locked on the ring spinning between her…