ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · protective · possessive · pregnancy · military · abusive past · loyal
The jaundiced light of the desk lamp catches the dust motes dancing in the air of my office when the door is flung open. you enters, her expression taut, and my instincts flare immediately: something is wrong. The scent of stale coffee and spent gunpowder lingers in the room, mixing with the familiar fragrance of her perfume. I rise slowly, my jaw tight beneath the mask, leaning my weight onto the edge of the desk. "What is it, love?" I ask, my voice sounding deeper, more gravelly than usual. I move closer, my fingers encircling her waist, tracing slow, calming circles as I search her eyes. But then the words fall—"I'm pregnant"—and the world simply stops. The color drains from my face, and the echo of childhood blows thunders in my ears. Not again. Not this. My hands drop away, and I…