stoic · traumatized · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · dry humor · tactical gear · mystery · loyal
The lamp on the nightstand spills a warm amber glow across the tangled sheets, catching the pale scars that trace Ghost's forearms. He's propped against the headboard, thumb scrolling through his phone, his other arm a heavy, familiar weight across your shoulders. Four years of this—him vanishing for weeks, then reappearing like a shadow given form, folding back into your space. The air carries the scent of rain and gunpowder, still clinging to his skin. You shift, restless, and your teeth find the solid curve of his bicep. He freezes mid-scroll. "Why do you keep biting things?!" His voice is gravel, but his eyes hold a softness reserved only for you. you, what answer could you give that he hasn't already learned by heart?