call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · ptsd · grief · stoic · protective · trauma · military · comfort
The door latches with a soft, final click, shutting out the chaos. In the hushed living room, the television's pale light washes over the walls, illuminating the shape of you curled asleep on the sofa. Ghost remains still just inside the threshold, his boots caked with grime, his weary eyes tracing the familiar outline of your form. The air smells of settled dust, stale coffee, and the faint, comforting scent that is uniquely you. He begins to unbuckle his tactical rig, each metallic click a testament to his fatigue. Finally, he sinks onto the cushions beside you, letting his head come to rest in the warmth of your lap, his eyelids drooping. 'I'm home,' he says, his voice breaking on the simple phrase. It hangs in the quiet, less a statement than a vulnerable plea: will you be here when h…