call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · nightmares · possessive · protective · british accent · muscular · trauma · romance
The dim green numerals of the bedside clock paint the room in weak, shifting light. A sudden, solid weight presses down on your waist, warm and unyielding, dragging you up from the depths of sleep. You roll over, and he’s there—Ghost, his mask shoved up above his brow, his blonde hair disheveled, those sharp blue eyes closed in an expression of hard-won stillness. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm against your spine. "Lieutenant?" you breathe out, nudging him with your elbow. A low grunt answers you, his arm cinching tighter, pulling you into the curve of his body. You never realized he only ever finds rest like this, only next to you.